CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(l\1onographs) 


ICI\/IH 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographles) 


m 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  MIcroreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  da  microrsproductions  historiquas 


1995 


\ 


Ttchnical  and  Bibliographtc  Noin  /  Notts  tcchniqiws  et  biblioqiaphtquts 


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of  the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming,  art 
checked  below. 


0 

D 
D 

n 
n 
0 

n 

D 
D 


n 


Coloured  covert/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 

Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagte 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurie  et/ou  pelliculie 

Cover  title  mining/ 

L«  titte  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

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Additional  comments:/ 
Commentairti  supptementaires: 


L'lnstitut  a  microf  ilmi  le  meilla<  '  exemplaire  qu'il 
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reproduite.  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modification 
dans  la  mithocie  normale  de  f  ilmage  sent  indiquis 
ct-dessoui. 

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□  Pages  damaged/ 
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□  Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
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0 


Xl  ^•9"  ditcolourid.  stained  or  fo«>d/ 
Pages  decolorees.  tachetees  ou  piquets 


□  Pages  detached/ 
Pages  detachees 

EShowthrough/ 
Transparence 

HQuafity  of  print  varies/ 
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Pagination  continue 

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□  Title  page  of  issue/ 
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□  Caption 
Titre  de 


of  issue/ 

depart  de  ta  livraison 


□  Masthead/ 
Generi 


ique  IperiodiquesI  de  la  livraison 


This  Item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filme  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqui  ci-dessous. 

'O*  1«X  18X 


m 


ill 

20X 


ax 


30X 


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Carleton  University 

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sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
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The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  mJcrof  che 
shall  contain  the  symbol  ^^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


L'exemplaire  filmA  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
gAnArositA  de: 

MacOdrum  Library 
Carleton  University 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet6  de  I'exenplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couvertura  en 
papier  est  imprimAe  sont  filmifts  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filrpAs  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernjdre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaltra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  -^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film^s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffArents. 
Lorsque  )e  document  fiSt  trop  grand  pour  6tre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichd,  il  est  filmd  A  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas.  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'Jmages  n6cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MICROCOPY    RCSOLUT!ON   TtST   CHART 

lANSI  end  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    21 


1.0    !fi^  Ilia 


^    12.0 


1.6 


^     APPLIED  ir^HGE     In 


'653   East   Ma-i   Street 

Rocfiester.    New    York 
1/16)   «82  -  OJOO  -  Phor 
(?16)   288  -  5989  -  Fa. 


THE,  WILD 


OLIVE. 


^Si^^/L^^ 


BTTHE^WTHOROF 

IlNNmSHRlNE 


THERE  ARE  A  HUNDRFD  MEN  BEATING  THE  MorNTAIN 
TO   FIND   YOU 


\\ 

THE 

1 

< 

^ILD  OLIVE 

A  NOVEL 

; 

i 

\ 

BY  THB  AUTHOR  0» 

THE  INNER  SHRINb 

ps 

ILtUSTRATFO  BY                 \/^/  ') 
LUaUS  HITCHCOCK 

^ 

NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 

Publithed  by  innngcniffnt  with  Harper  &  Biodiea 


n 


C°Wrt«''t,  .9..^,  H»,f.,  a  B.OTKTO 

Published  M^,„o 


M-U 


i\ 


Part  I 
FORD 


THE    WILD    OLIFE 


I 

IINDING  himself  in  the  level  wood  -  road, 
whose  open  aisle  drew  a  long,  straight  streak 
across  the  sky,  still  luminous  with  the  late- 
lingering  Adirondack  twilight,  the  tall  young 
fugitive,  hatless,  coatless,  and  barefooted, 
paused  a  minute  for  reflection.  As  he  paused,  he  listened; 
but  all  distinctiveness  of  sound  was  lost  in  the  play  of  the 
wind,  up  hill  and  down  dale,  through  chasm  and  over 
erag,  in  those  uncounted  leagues  of  forest.  It  was  only  a 
summer  wind,  soft  and  from  the  south;  but  its  murmur  had 
the  sweep  of  the  etcrnai  breath,  while,  when  it  waxed  in 
power,  it  rose  like  the  swell  of  some  great  cosmic  organ 
Through  the  pines  and  in  the  underbrush  it  whispered 
and  crackled  and  crashed,  with  a  variety  of  effect  strangely 
bevpildering  to  the  young  man's  city-nurtured  senses. 
There  were  minutes  when  he  felt  that  not  only  the  four 
country  constables  whom  he  had  escaped  were  about  t« 
burst  upon  him,  but  that  weird  armies  of  gnomes  were 
ready  to  trample  him  down. 

Out  of  the  confusion  of  wood-noises,  in  which  hi«  un- 
ptactised  ear  could  distinguish  nothing,  he  waited  for  a 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

repetition  of  the  shots  which  a  few  hours  ago  had  been 
the  protest  of  his  guards;    but,  none  coming,  he  sped  on 
again.     He  weighed   the   danger  of  running  in  the  open 
against  the  opportunities  for  speed,  and  decided  in  favor 
of  the  latter.     Hitherto,  in  accordance  with  a  woodcraft 
invented  to  meet  the  emergency,  and  entirely  his  own,  he 
had  avoided  an>uhing  in  the  nature  of  a  road  or  a  pathway, 
in   order   to   take   advantage   of  the   tracklessness  which 
formed  his  obvious  protection;    but  now  he  judged  the 
moment  come  for  putting  actual  space  between  his  pur- 
•uers  and  himself.     How  near,  or  how  far  behind  him,  they 
might  be  he  could  not  guess.     If  he  had  covered  ground, 
they  would  have  covered  it  too,  since  they  were  men  bom 
to  the  mountains,  while  he  had  been  bred  in  towns.    Hii 
hope  lay  in  the  possibility  that  in  this  wilderness  he  might 
be  lost  to  their  ken,  as  a  mote  is  lost  in  the  air— though  he 
built  something  on  the  chance  that,  in  sympathy  with  the 
feelmg  in  his  favor  pervading  the  simpler  population  of  the 
region,  they  had  given  negative  connivance  to  his  escape. 
These  dioughts,  far  from  stimulating  a  false  confidence, 
urged  him  to  greater  speed. 

And  yet,  even  as  he  fled,  he  had  a  consciousness  of 
abandoning  something— perhaps  of  deserting  something- 
which  brought  a  strain  of  regret  into  this  minute  of  des- 
perate excitement.  Without  having  had  time  to  count  the 
cost  or  reckon  the  result,  he  felt  he  was  giving  up  the  fight. 
He,  or  his  counsel  for  him,  had  contested  the  ground  with 
all  the  resourceful  ingenuity  known  to  the  American  legal 
practitioner.  He  was  told  that,  in  spite  of  the  seeming 
inahty  of  what  had  happened  that  morning,  there  were 
itfll  loopholes  through  which  the  defence  might  be  carried 
•n.  In  the  space  of  a  few  hours  Fate  had  offered  him  die 
4 


THE       WILD        OLIVE 

choice  between  two  courses,  neither  of  them  fertile  in 
promises  of  success.  The  one  was  long  and  tedious,  with 
a  possibility  of  ultimate  justification;  the  other  short  and 
speedy,  with  the  accepted  imputation  of  guilt.  He  had 
chosen  the  latter— instinctively  and  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment;  and  while  he  might  have  repeated  at  leisure  the 
decision  he  had  made  in  haste,  he  knew  even  now  that  he 
was  leaving  the  ways  and  means  of  proving  his  innocence 
behind  him.  The  perception  came,  not  as  the  result  of  a 
process  of  thought,  but  as  a  regretful,  scarcely  detected 
sensation. 

He  had  dashed  at  first  into  the  broken  country,  hilly 
rather  than  mr'mtainous,  which  from  the  shores  of  Lake 
Champlain  gradually  gathers  strength,  as  it  rolls  inland, 
to  toss  up  the  crests  of  the  Adirondacks.  Here,  burying 
himself  in  the  woods,  he  skirted  the  unkempt  farms,  whose 
cottage  lights,  just  beginning  to  bum,  served  him  as  signals 
to  keep  farther  off.  When  forced  to  cross  one  of  the  sterile 
fields,  he  crawled  low,  blotting  himself  out  among  the 
bowlders.  At  times  a  patch  of  tall,  tasselled  Indian  com, 
interlaced  with  wandering  pumpkin  vines,  gave  him  cover, 
till  he  regained  the  shelter  of  the  vast  Appalachian  mother- 
forest,  which,  after  climbing  Cumberlands,  Alleghanies, 
Catskills,  and  Adirondacks,  here  clambers  down,  in  long 
reaches  of  ash  and  maple,  juniper  and  pine,  toward  the 
lowlands  of  the  north. 

As  far  as  he  had  yet  been  able  to  formulate  a  plan  of' 
flight,  it  was  to  seek  his  safety  among  the  hills.  The 
necessity  of  the  instant  was  driving  him  toward  the  open 
country  and  the  lake,  but  he  hoped  to  double  soon  upon 
his  tracks,  finding  his  way  back  to  the  lumber  camps,  whose 
friendly  spiriting  from  bunk-house  to  bunk-house  would 


THE        WILD        O   L  I  V  p. 

baffle  pursuit.  Once  he  had  gained  even  a  few  hour.' 
•ecunty.  he  would  be  able  to  some  extent  to  pick  and  choose 
bis  way.  ^^ 

He    steered    himself   by   the   peak   of  Graytop,   black 
agamst  the  last  coral-tinted  glow  of  the  sunset,  as  a  sailor 
.teers   by  a   star.     There  was  further  assurance  that  he 
was  not  losmg  himself  or  wandering  in  a  circle,  when  from 
tome  chance  outlook  he  ventured  to  glance  backward  and 
WW  the   pinnacle  of   Windy  Mountain   or  the   dome  of 
the   Pilot  straight   behind    him.     There   lay   the   natural 
retreatc    f  the  lynx,  the  bear,  and  the  outlaw  like  himself; 
and.  as  he  fled  farther  f>om  them,  it  was  with  the  same 
fienz.ed  mstmct  to  return  that  the  driven  stag  must  fed 
toward  the  bed  of  fern  from  which  he  has  been  roused. 
Hut,  for  the  mmute.  there  was  one  imperative  necessity- 
to  go  on-to  go  on  anywhere,  anyhow,  so  long  as  it  took 
h.m  for  enough  from  the  spot  where  masked  men  had 
loosed  the  handcuffs  from  his  wrists  and  stray  shots  had 
come  nnging  after  him.     In  his  path  there  were  lakelets, 
which  he  swam,  and  streams,  which  he  forded.     Over  the 
low  hills  he  scrambled  through  an  undergrowth  so  dense 
that  even  the   ,nake  or  the  squirrel   might  have  avbided 
It.  to  find  some  easier  way.     Now  and  then,  as  he  dragged 
himself  up  the  more  barren  ascents,  the  loose  soil  gave 
way  beneath  his  steps  in  miniature  avalanches  of  stone  and 
•and    over  which   he  crept,  clinging  to  tufts  of  grass  or 
lightly  rooted  saplings,  to  rise  at  last  with  hands  scratched 
and  feet  bleeding.     Then,  on  again  I -frantically,  as  the 
bare  runs  and  as  the  crow  flies,  without  swerving -on 
with  the  sole  aim  of  gaining  time  and  covering  distancel   ' 
He  was  not  a  native  of  tiie  mountains.     Though  in  the 
•wo  years  spent  among  them  he  had  come  to  acknowledge 


THE       tV  I  L   D        O   L   I  V  E 

their  charm,  it  was  only  as  a  man  learns  to  love  an  alien 
mistress,  whose  alternating  moods  of  savagery  and  softness 
hold  him  with  a  spell  of  which  he  is  half  afraid.  More 
than  any  one  suspected  or  he  could  have  explained,  hi. 
reckless  life  had  been  the  rebellion  of  his  man-trained, 
urban  instinct  against  the  domination  of  this  supreme 
earth-force,  to  which  he  was  of  no  more  value  than  a  falling 
leaf  or  a  dissolving  cloud.  Even  now,  as  he  flung  himself 
on  the  forest  s  protection,  it  was  not  with  the  solace  of  the 
«.n  returning  to  the  mother;  it  was  rather  as  a  man  might 
take  refuge  from  a  lion  in  a  mammoth  cavern,  where  the 
darkness  only  conceals  dangers. 

After  the  struggle  with  crude  nature  the  smooth,  eras^. 
carpeted  wagon-track  brought  him  more  than  a   physical 
•ense  of  conifort     It  not  only  made  his  flight  sHft  and 
easy,  but  It  had  been  marked  out  by  man,  for  man's  pur- 
poses and  to  meet  man's  need.      It  was  the  result  of  , 
human  intelhgence;  it  led  to  a  human  goal.     It  was  possible 
that  It  m-ght  lead  even  him  into  touch  with  human  sym- 
path.es.     With  the  thought,  he  became  conscious  all  a, 
once  that  he  was  famished  and  fatigued.     Up  to  the  present 
he  had  been  as  little  aware  of  a  body  as  a  spirit  on  i« 
way  between  two  worlds.     It  had  ached  and  sweated  and 
bled;    but  he  had  not  noticed  it.     The  electric  fluid  could 
not  have  seemed  more  tireless  or  iron  more  insensate.     But 
now,  when  the  hardship  was  somewhat  relaxed,  he  was 
forced  back  on  the  perception  that  he  was  faint  and  hun- 
gry.   His  speed  slackened;  his  shoulders  sagged;  the  lonj 
jecond  wind,  which  had  lasted  so  well,  begfn  t;  shorten^ 
For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  how  long 
hu  strength  would  hold  out.  * 

It  was  thon  that  he  noticed  a  deflection  of  the  wood-road 
7 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

toward  the  north,  and  down  over  the  brow  of  the  plateau 
on  which  for  a  mile  or  two  its  evenness  had  been  sustained. 
Itwasa  news.gn  that  it  was  tending  toward  some  habitation. 
Half  an  hour  ago  he  would  have  taken  this  to  mean  that 
he  must  dash  into  the  forest  again;  but  half  an  hour  aco 
he  had  not  been  hungry.  He  did  not  say  to  himself  that 
he  would  venture  to  any  man's  door  and  ask  for  bread 
So  far  as  he  knew,  he  would  never  venture  to  any  man's 
door  agam;  nevertheless,  he  kept  on.  down-hill,  and  down- 
hill, nearer  and  nearer  the  lake,  and  farther  and  farther 
from  the  mountain  and  the  lairs  of  safety. 

Suddenly,  at  a  turning,  when  he  was  not  expecting  it. 
the  wood-road  emerged  into  a  rough  clearing.  Once  more 
he  stopped  to  reflect  and  take  his  bearings.  It  had  grown 
so  dark  that  there  was  little  danger  in  doing  so;  thou-^h,  as 
he  peered  mto  the  gloom,  his  nerves  were  still  taut  w=th 
the  expectation  of  shot  or  capture  from  behind.  Straining 
his  eyes,  he  made  out  a  few  acres  that  had  been  cleared  for 
their  timber,  after  which  Nature  had  been  allowed  to  take 
her  own  way  again,  in  unruly  growths  of  saplings,  tangles 
of  wild  vines,  and  clumps  of  magenta  fireweed 

Without  quite  knowing  why  he  did  so,  he  crept  down  th« 
slope  feeling  his  way  among  the  stumps,  and  stooping  low. 
lest  his  white  shirt,  wet  and  clinging  limply  to  his  body, 
might  betray  him  to  some  keen-eyed  marksman.  Presently 
one  of  the  old  root-hedges,  common  to  the  countryside, 
barred  his  path-a  queer,  twisted  line  of  long,  gray  tenta- 
des  that  had  once  sucked  sustenance  from  the  soil,  but  now 
reached  up  idly  into  a  barren  element,  where  the  wild  grape 
was  covering  their  grotesque  nakedness  with  masses  of  kind- 
ly beauty.  Below  him  he  saw  lights  shining  clearly  like  the 
planets,  or  faintly  like  the  mere  star-dust  of  the  sky,  while 
8 


THE        WILD        O   L   I  F   R 

between  the  two  degrees  of  brightness  he  knew  there  must 
he  the  bosom  of  the  lake.  He  had  come  to  the  little  fringe 
of  towns  that  cl.ng,  to  the  borders  of  Champlain,  here  wiS 
the  Adirondack,  behind  him,  and  there  with  the  mcuntains 
of  Vermont  but  keeping  close  to  the  great,  safe  waterway, 
a.  though  distrusting  the  ruggedness  of  both. 

It  was  a  moment  at  which  to  renew  his  alarm  in  this 
proximity  to  human  dwellings.  Like  the  tiger  that  ha. 
Tentiired  beyond  the  edge  of  the  jungle,  he  must  slink 
back  at  the  sight  of  fire.  He  turned  himself  slowly,  looking 
up  the  heights  from  which  he  had  come  down,  as  they 
rolled  behind  him,  mysterious  and  hostile,  in  the  growing 
darkness.  Even  the  sky,  from  which  it  seemed  impossible 
for_the  daylight  ever  to  depart,  now  had  an  angry  red  glare 

He  took  a  step  or  two  toward  the  forest,  and  paused 
again,  still  staring  upward.  Where  was  he  going  ?  Where 
could  he  go?  The  question  presented  itself  with  an  odd 
pertinence  that  drew  his  set,  beardless  lips  into  a  kind  of 
^ile.  When  he  had  first  made  his  rush  outward  the  one 
thing  that  seemed  to  him  essential  was  to  be  free;  but  now 
he  was  forced  to  ask  himself:  For  what  purpose  .?  Of  what 
use  was  It  to  be  as  free  as  wind  if  he  was  to  be  as  homeless  ? 
It  was  not  merely  that  he  was  homeless  for  the  moment; 
Aat  was  nothing;  the  overwhelming  reflection  was  that  he 
Nome  Ford,  could  never  have  a  home  at  ail-that  there 
was  scarcehr  a  spot  within  the  borders  of  civilized  mankind 
where  the  law  would  not  hunt  him  out. 

This  view  of  his  situation  was  so  apparent  and  yet  so  new 
that  It  held  him  stock-still,  gazing  into  space.  He  was  free 
-but  free  only  to  crawl  back  into  the  jungle  and  lie  down 
m  It,  like  a  wild  beast. 


11 


THE       WILD        O  L   I  V  n 

;'But  I'm  not  a  wild  bea.t."  h.  protested,  inwardl, 

ig'or """"''  '""■""  "«'"••  ^y"^'  I'"  -veni 

the"lkr*'"Th'l  rT''  f^'";  '^"'  **  '°''"  ''"<'•  »"«> 
deepened,  each  lamp  shining  from  some  little  nest.  whe» 
«en  and  women  were  busied  with  the  small  task,  and 
mterests  that  made  life  This  was  liberty!  This  was  w^t 
he  had  a  da.m  uponi  All  his  instincts  were  civilized, 
domesfc^    He  would  not  go  back  to  the  forest,    o'rd 

hT,  k"  H  "h*;'r  '^  "^i " "«''' '° "« «•"-  — « 

but  i  L  k'  r  '''V'"  ''"'  °P'"  ''""'^^^''s  of  time- 
but  .t  had  been  from  choice.  There  had  been  pleasur. 
then,  m  wakmg  to  the  smell  of  balsam  and  opening  h^ 
ey  s  upon  the  stars.  But  to  do  the  same  thing  from  con^ 
pulsion,  because  men  had  closed  up  their  ranks  and  eject^ 
hm  from  the.r  m  dst  was  an  outrage  he  would  not  aicep. 
In  the  darkness  h,s  head  went  up.  while  his  eyes  burned 

from  the  towns  below,  as  he  strode  back  to  the  old  roo^ 
nedge  and  leaped  it. 

He  felt  the  imprudence,  not  to  say  the  uselessness,  of  the 

from!  t'"  ^^'"^  '°^'  '""^  '«'"«  ^"-  ''"rtled 

from  their  munchmg  by  his  footstep.  It  was  another  de- 
pee  nearer  to  the  organized  life  i„  which  he  was  entitled 
«o  a  p  ace.     Shielded  by  a  shrubbeiy  of  sleeping  golden  od 

Folow  ^^^'^,T'  ""^  '°  P^^'"^'  ='"d  --e  home 
Fo^lowmg  the  trail,  he  passed  a  meadow,  a  potato- field 
and  a  patch  of  Indian  corn,  till  f  •  scent  of'flowl  tl  hS 
he  was  commg  on  a  garden.    ^  minute  late.,  low,  velv.» 


THE        ty  1  L  D        OLIVE 

dome,  of  clipped  yew  rose  in  the  foreground,  and  he  knevr 
himself  to  be  in  touch  with  the  civili^at;on  that  clung,  like 
■  hardy  vine,  to  the  coves  and  pron-ontories  of  the  lake 
while  Its  tendrils  withered  as  soon  ■.  they  were  flung  up 
toward  the  mountains.  Only  a  fev  steps  more,  and  hi 
meen  the  yews,  he  saw  the  light  streaming  from  the  <mf  n 
doors  and  windows  of  a  house. 

It  was  such  a  house  as,  during  the  two  years  he  had  spent 
up  in  the  high  ti,»ber-lands,  he  had  caught  sight  of  only  on 
the  rare  occasions  when  he  came  within  the  precincts  of 
>  town— a  house  whose  outward  aspect,  even  at  nicht 
tuggesied  something  of  taste,  means,  and  social  position' 
for  Its  occupants.  Slipping  nearer  still,  he  saw  cuttaini 
fluttering  in  the  breeze  of  the  August  evening,  and  Virginia 
creeper  dropping  in  heavily  massed  garUmds  from  the  roof 
of  a  columned  verr,  ,da.  A  French  window  was  open  to 
the  floor,  and  within,  he  could  see  vagueli',  people  were 
seated.  ' 

The  scene  was  simple  enough,  but  to  the  fugitive  it  had 
.  kind  of  sacredness.  It  was  like  a  glin.pse  into  the  heaven 
he  has  lost  caught  by  a  fallen  angel.  For  the  nu^ment  he 
forgot  his  hunger  and  weakness,  in  this  fe.nst  for  the  heart 
and  eyes.  It  was  with  something  of  the  pleasure  of  recog- 
nmng  long-absent  faces  that  he  traced  the  line  of  a  sofa 
against  the  vv;,ll,  and  stated  to  himself  th:.t  there  was  a 
row  of  prints  hanging  above  it.  Jhere  had  been  no  such 
det?,^  as  these  to  note  in  his  cell,  nor  yet  in  the  court-room 
whiTh  for  months  had  constituted  his  only  change  of  out- 
look.  Insensibly  to  himself,  he  crept  nearer,  drawn  by  the 
sheer  spell  of  gazing. 

Finding  a  gate  leading  into  the  garden,  he  opened  it 
softly,  leaving  it  so,  in  order  to  secure  his  retreat.     From 
II 


THE        fr  I   L   D        O  L  I  y  B 

Ae  shelter  of  one  of  the  rounded  /ew-tree.  he  could  makt 
h«  observations  tr.re  at  ease.  He  perceived  now  that  th« 
house  stood  on  a  ,err-ce,  and  turned  the  garden  front,  iti 
more  secluded  aspect,  in  his  direction.  The  hieh  hedeet. 
common  ,n  these  lakeside  villages,  screened  it  from  the 
road;  wh.le  the  open  French  window  threw  a  shaft  of 
brightness  down  the  yew-tree  walk,  casting  the  rest  of  th< 
garden  mto  gloom. 

To  Norrie  Ford,  peeping  furtively  from  behind  one  of 
the  dotnes  of  clipped  foliage,  there  was  exasperation  in  th. 
fact  that  M.S  new  position  gave  him  no  glimpse  of  the  people 
m  the  room.  His  hunger  to  see  them  became  for  the 
inmute  more  msistent  than  that  for  food.  They  represented 
that  hunan  society  from  which  he  had  waked  one  morning 
to  hnd  himself  cut  off,  as  a  rock  is  cut  off  by  seismic  con- 
vulsici,  from  the  mainland  of  which  it  has  formed  a  part 
It  was  in  a  sort  of  effort  to  span  the  gulf  separating  him 
from  his  own  past  that  he  peered  now  into  this  room,  whose 
mmates  were  only  passing  the  hours  between  the  evening 
meal  anJ  bedtime.  That  people  could  sit  tranquilly  read- 
mg  books  or  phying  games  filled  him  with  a  kind  of 
Wonder. 

Wi'-n  he  considered  it  safe  he  flipped  alon.,'  to  what  Le 
hoped  would  prove  a  better  point  of  view,  but,  finding  it  no 
more  ajvaniageous,  he  darted  to  still  another.  The  light 
lured  him  as  it  inight  lure  an  insect  of  the  night,  till  presently 
he  stood  on  the  very  steps  of  the  terrace.  Kc  knew  the 
danger  of  his  situation,  but  he  couH  not  brinR  himself  to 
turn  and  steal  away  till  he  had  fi:,-d  the  picture  of  that 
cheerful  interior  firmly  on  his  memory.  The  risk  wat 
great,  but  the  glimpse  of  life  was  worth  it. 

With  powers  of  observation  quickened  by  his  plight,  h* 

12 


THE        IV  I  L   D        OLIVE 

no'ed  that  the  home  was  just  such  a  one  as  thnt  fn.m  which 
he  had  sprung— one  where  old  engravings  hung  on  the  wall, 
while  books  filled  the  shelves,  and  papers  and  pcriodicaii 
Itrewed  the  tahlcs.  The  furni.shin^^s  sp<,ke  <,f  c..n,f.,rt  and 
a  modest  dignity.  Ohliqucly  in  his  line  of  vision  he  could 
see  two  children,  seated  at  a  tal.lc  and  poring  over  a  picture- 
book.  The  boy,  a  manly  urchin,  mi,c;ht  haNe  been  fourteen, 
the  gnl  a  year  or  two  younger.  Her  curls  fell  ,,ver  the 
hand  and  arm  supporting  her  check,  so  that  Foid  could 
only  guess  at  the  blue  eyes  concealed  behind  them.  NW 
and  then  the  boy  turned  a  page  before  she  was  ready, 
whereupon  followed  pretty  cries  of  protestation.  It  was 
perhaps  this  mimic  quarrel  thut  cilled  forth  a  remark  from 
some  one  sittmg  within  the  shadow. 

"Evie  dear,  it's  time  to  go  to  bed.     Billy,  I  don't  believe 
they  let  y.u  stay  up  as  late  as  this  at  bom-." 

"Oh   yes,   they   do,"   came    Billy's   answer,   given   with 
sturdy  assurance.     "I  often  stay  up  till  nine." 

"Well,  it's  half  past  now;    so  yon'd  bith  better  come 
and  say  good-night." 

With  one  foot  resting  on  the  turf  and  the  other  raised  to 
the  first  step  of  the  terrace,  as  he  stood  with  folded  arms 
Ford  watched  the  little  scene,  in  which  the  children  closed 
their  book,  pushed  back  their  chairs,  and  crossed  the  room 
^  say  good-night  to  the  two  who  were  seated  in  the  shadow 
The  boy  came  first,  with  hands  thrnst  into  his  trousers 
pockets  in  a  kind  of  grave  nonchalance.  The  little  girl 
fluttered  along  behind,  but  broke  her  journey  across  the 
room  by  stepping  into  the  opening  of  the  long  window  and 
looking  out  into  the  night.  Ford  stood  bre^hless  and 
motionless,  expecting  her  to  see  him  and  cry  out.  But  she 
turned  away  and  danced  again  into  the  shadow,  after 
2  ,3 


*«tf»^WV4^ 


which  he  saw  her  no  mnrp      Tl,„    -i  \       I         '  ' 

~™  -  h™  ,H„  .r.^e  ™::'«r.£.""  "*'-  "• 

*>..-...  .,::.x  :rj^  ,1-t'rs,  i;'" 
Sit;;  f r';r-  -  •■-  --  ■-"h" 

He  could   perceive  now  that  the  laHv  r„l,     k   j 

made  the  same  observation  with  reeard  to  Z  u 

-t  wi,h   his   back   to  the  window  'le  w.s   L  "^nf"        ? 
even>ng  dress-a  circun,stance  that,  in    his  1  nd  of  nt™ 
less  p„.n,tive  simplicity,  spoke  of  a  se:,  . "f  e,  e     r'  " 

magn,Oi„,.g,,,,  3s,  with  some  diffi  "i  /h      e  d    '""'  ' 

=r^"£:^hS"in-^^^^^ 
:^^fnfrz::iSi::t™ 

;n'i';-:::;rthLtr^°r^'^'-^^-''-- 

he  had  least  need  t    be  a  .aid      Tl  ""  IT'"'  '''^■'""" 
"  to  De  afraid.     Tlie  sordid  tragedy  up  in 

14 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


I 


the  mountains  had  probably  interested  them  little,  and  in 
any  case  they  could  not  as  yet  have  heard  of  his  escape.  If 
he  broke  in  on  them  and  demanded  food,  they  would  give 
w  to  him  as  to  some  common  desperado,  and  be  glad  to  let 
him  go.  If  there  was  any  one  to  inspire  terror,  it  was  he, 
with  his  height,  and  youth,  and  wildness  of  aspect.  He 
was  thinking  out  the  most  natural  method  of  playing  some 
small  comedy  of  violence,  when  suddenly  the  man  threw 
down  the  paper  with  a  sigh.  On  the  instant  the  lady 
■poke,  as  though  she  had  been  awaiting  her  cue. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  feel  so  about  it,"  she  said, 
making  an  effort  to  control  a  cough.  "You  must  have 
foreseen  something  of  this  sort  when  you  took  up  the  law." 

The  answer  reached  Ford's  ears  only  as  a  murmur,  but 
he  guessed  its  import  from  the  response. 

"True,"  she  returned,  when  he  had  spoken,  "to  foresee 
possibilities  is  one  thin;;,  and  to  meet  them  is  another;  but 
the  anticipation  does  something  to  nerve  one  for  the  neces- 
sity when  it  comes." 

Again  there  was  a  murmur  in  which  Ford  could  distinguish 
nothing,  but  again  her  reply  told  him  what  it  meant. 

"The  right  and  the  wrong,  as  I  understand  it,"  she  went 
on,  "is  something  with  which  you  have  nothing  to  do. 
Your  part  is  to  administer  the  law,  not  to  judge  of  how  it 
works." 

Once  more  Ford  was  unable  to  catch  what  was  said  in 
reply,  but  once  more  the  lady's  speech  enlightened  him. 

"That's  the  worst  of  it  ?  Possibly;  but  it's  also  the  best 
of  it;  for  since  it  relieves  you  of  responsibility  it's  foolish 
for  you  to  feel  remorse." 

What  was  the  motive  of  these  remarks  ?     Ford  found 
himself  possessed  of  a   strange   curiosity  to   know.    He 
'5 


INttT' 


'w^T^pmrnmi^w^^^ms, 


THE       w  I 


L  D 


OLIVE 


joliowed  he  began  again  .  wondllX'    „M  B^.S 
hs  demand  for  food,  when  a  sound  from  behind  iTtleJ 

j;rough  which  He  had  e„^.red:Lrd'd:  L:;:t:j:: 

J.S  pursuers,  and  heedless  of  the  astonished  eyes  ^^'0^ 
h.m.     It  was  not  till  some  seconds  had  gone  by    and  he 

"or  whLTid"  '"°^^'^'  "'^'  "^  ^'-^eiYo-uf  tt 
^^:  ;s^d-^-^-tai2 

"You  '""''  '     "^  '"'"'"'  ''^^"^^  ""'^^  "P"''-- 
"You?" 

"wJ*"'  "  I""'  ■"'"'"  '''  "'•'■  '"  ^  -"^'^^  "ff^^ced  calmness 
whom-whom-weVe  been  talking  about  "  * 

iNot  the  man— you— ?" 

-^Klrl?'^'-  "^•"^  '"^"  I-I-entenced  to  death 
16 


}^iw''fcjri^"^''s^«i.'cwiir'jp- 


n 


■if 

I 


VIE!" 

Mrs.  Wayne  went  to  the  door,  but  on 
Ford's  assurance  that  her  child  had  noth- 
I  ing  to  fear  from  him,  she  paused  with  her 
I  hand  on  the  knob  to  look  in  curiosity  at 
this  wiid  young  man,  whose  doom  lent  him  a  kind  of  fas- 
cination. Ag;iin,  for  a  minute,  all  three  were  silent  in  the 
excess  of  their  surprise.  Wayne  himself  sat  rigid,  gaz- 
ing up  at  the  new-comer  with  strained  eyes  blurred  with 
partial  blindness.  Though  slightly  built  and  delicate,  he 
was  not  physically  timid;  and  as  the  seconds  went  by  he 
was  able  to  form  an  idea  as  to  what  had  iappened.  He 
himself,  in  view  of  the  tumultuous  sympathy  displayed  by 
hunters  and  lumber-jacks  with  the  man  who  passed  for 
their  boon  companion,  had  advised  Ford's  removal  from 
the  pretty  toy  prison  of  the  county-town  to  the  stronger 
one  at  Plattsville.  It  was  clear  that  the  prisoner  hao  been 
helped  to  escape,  either  before  the  change  had  been  effected 
or  while  it  was  taking  place.  There  was  nothing  sur- 
prising in  that;  the  astonishing  thing  was  that  the  fugitive 
should  have  found  his  way  to  this  house  above  all  others. 
Mrs  Wayne  seemed  to  think  so  too,  for  it  was  she  who  spoke 
first,  in  a  tone  which  she  tried  to  make  peremptory,  in  spite 
of  its  tremor  of  fear. 
"What  did  you  come  here  for?" 
«7 


^■ff*'i:^yi 


I  F  E 

Ford  looked  at  her  for  the  first  time-in  a  l,I,„l. 
-thout  a  dun  element  of  pleasure.     It  Ta     e    t":::o"o°; 
three  years  smce  he  had  seen  anything  so  daimv     nT  " 
fact,  since  his  own  mother  died      A^a  1  dZ V      •  "^ 
worked  slowly,  so  that  he  found  not  in^  to  rrpl.Tl' 
repeated  her  question  with  a  show  of  inc'rea;  tve  r' 
I  ca,„e  here  for  protection,"  he  said  then  ^" 

His   hesitation   and   bewildered   niV  i^^    .  j 
to  his  still   astonished  hoTts  ^     ^^  "'''"""" 

''Isn;t  it  an  odd  place  in  which  to  look  for  that  V  Wavn. 
■  Aed,  in  an  excitement  he  strove  to  subdue  ^ 

.et;j-r;iT::r''^"'-^^<^-<^^<^-^<>e- 

"No,"  he  replied,  slowlv    "IV»  ,     ■  i 
oveSr:roT:dl'r'  \"^;:  '^  ^'"°°"''"S  the  newspaper 

-ck;:;p:Ji:r-i:^^r^----- 
^^'^^t:^^:^-^^ --^  ^--' ^^-  You 

law.     You   h.,ve   no   rgh     to  Lrrkr  ''''"^''  ''  ''' 
noccnt."  ^  ^  ^  ''""^  y""  to  be  in- 

r,«.if?„.  I,,  .1  1  .  "'^  ^™   hnntrino-  limnlr 

^fter  ^1^;;:^:  ^r'-^"^  ™"' '-'-'''"  ■'«  — d, 

„n.   I    J        "^        '     '^'"=""  5  as  transparent  as  vours      N„ 
-J^^^   any  doubt  as   to  your  co^ictions-S-.i:: 

"Thnt  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.     If  I  charged  i„  y„„ 


THE        fF  I  L   D        OLIVE 

ftTor,  it  was  because  I  wanted  you  to  have  the  benefit  of 
every  possible  plea.  When  those  pleas  were  found  insuffi- 
•tent  by  a  jury  of  your  peers — " 

Ford  emitted  a  sound  that  might  have  been  a  laugh, 
■ad  there  been  mirth  in  it. 

"A  jury  of  my  peersl  A  lot  of  thick-headed  country 
tradesmen,  prejudiced  against  me  from  the  start  because 
Id  sometimes  kicked  up  a  row  in  their  town!  They 
weren't  my  peers  any  more  than  they  were  yours!" 
"The  law  assumes  all  men  to  be  equal—" 
"Just  as  it  assumes  all  men  to  be  intelligent— only  they*r« 
■ot.  The  law  is  a  very  fine  theory.  The  chief  tiling  to  be 
laid  against  it  is  that  five  times  out  of  ten  it  leaves  human 
nature  out  of  account.  I'm  condemned  to  death,  not  be- 
cause I  killed  a  man,  but  because  you  lawyers  won't  admit 
that  your  theory  doesn't  work." 

He  began  to  speak  more  easily,  with  the  energy  born  of 
his  desperate  situation  and  his  sense  of  wrong'.  He  sat 
up  straighter;  the  air  of  dejection  with  which  he  had  sunk 
to  the  chair  slipped  from  him;  his  gray  eves,  of  the  kind 
called  "honest,"  shot  out  glances  of  protest.  The  eider 
man  found  himself  once  more  struggling  against  the  wave 
of  sympathy  which  at  times  in  the  court-room  h;id  been 
almost  too  strong  for  him.  He  was  forced  to  intrench 
himself  mentally  within  he  system  he  served  before  bracing 
himself  to  reply. 

"I  can't  keep  you  from  having  your  opinion—" 
"Nor  can  I  save  you  from  having  yours.  Look  at  me, 
judge!"  He  was  bolt  upri  ht  now,  throwing  his  arms  wide' 
with  a  gesture  in  which  there  was  more  appeal  than  indigna- 
tion. "Look  at  me!  I'm  a  strong,  healthy-bodied,  healthy- 
minded  fellow  of  twenty-four;  but  I'm  drenched  to  the  skin, 
19 


A'i-'' 


\v^ 


THE       WILD 


OLIVE 


i  1:1 


I'm  half  naked.  I'm  nearly  dead  wi.h  hunger.  I'm  an  outlaw 
tor  liJe— and  you  re  responsible  for  it  all  " 

he':;:: »!::;,? "" ''' '''°"'' '""  ''°"^''  '•^  -'"«■'• 

"I  had  my  duty  to  perform—" 

dl?"  Y  *^.'"''  "'='"•  ,^.°"'*  ''"  '''"^  ='nd  call  that  thing  your 
duty!  You  re  something  more  than  a  wheel  in  a  machine 
You  were  a  human  being  before  you  were  a  judge  With 
your  convictions  you  should  have  come  down  from  the 
bench  and  washed  your  hands  of  the  whole  affair  The 
very  action  would  have  given  me  a  chance-" 

"You  mustn't  speak  like  that  to  my  husband."  Mrs 
Wayne  broke  in.mdignantly,  from  the  doorway.  "If  you 
only  knew  what  he  has  suffered  on  your  account-"      ^ 

^  Is  It  anything  like  what  I've  suffered  on  his  ?" 

..•n      I    T  '"^u"'"  ^°''^-    "•=  ''^  '^"«'y  ^"ept  or  eaten 

«nc^he  knew  he  would  have  to  pass  that  dread'ful  sen-" 

Come!  come!    Wayne  exclaimed,  in  the  impatient  tone 

of  a  man  who  puts  an  end  to  a  useless  discussion.     "We 

defcnc^''  '""'  °"  *"  ^"'J'^"  ''"^  '°"g-     I'™  "«  -  -y 

"Evyrv"'  °v^°"'  ''''■'"'^"'"  ^"'"^  ''^'^'"^d,  instantly. 
Even  your  wife  puts  you  there.  We're  not  in  a  coun- 
wom  as  we  were  this  morning.  Circumstantial  evidence 
means  nothmg  to  us  in  this  isolated  house,  whe.e  you're  no 
longer  the  judge,  as  I'm  no  longer  the  prisoner  We're 
just  two  naked  human  beings,  stripped  oLvei;:hinrb 
their  mborn  rights-and  I  claim  mine."  ^ 

Well— what  are  they.?" 

"They're   simple  enough.     I   claim   the  right  to   have 
«>meth,ng  to  eat.  and  to  go  my  way  without  beL  moles  ed 
-r  betrayed.     You'll  admit  I'm  not  asking  muc^7 
30 


"•!».«IC-"toii£"'    -KS^S 


THE        ff"  I  L   D        O   L    I  V  E 

"You  may  have  the  food,"  Mrs.  Wayne  said,  in  a  tone 
not  without  compassion.     "I'll  go  and  get  it." 

For  a  r.iinute  or  two  there  was  no  sound  but  that  of  her 
cough,  as  she  sped  down  a  passage.  Before  speaking, 
Wayne  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow  as  though  in  an 
effort  to  clear  his  mental  vision. 

"No;    you  don't  seem  to  be  asking  much.     But,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  you're  demanding  my  pledge  to  my  country. 
I  undertook  to  administer  its  laws — " 
Ford  spr.Tng  up. 

"You've  done  it,"  he  cried,  "and  I'm  the  result!  You've 
administered  the  law  right  up  to  its  hilt,  and  your  duty  as 
a  jud!;e  is  performed.  Surely  you're  free  now  to  think  of 
yourself  as  a  man  and  to  treat  me  as  one." 

"I  might  do  that,  and  still  think  you  a  man  dangerous 
to  leave  at  large." 
"But  do  you?" 

"That's  my  affair.  Whatever  your  opinion  of  the  courts 
that  have  judged  your  case,  I  must  accept  their  ver- 
dict." 

"In  your  official  capacity— yes;  but  not  here,  as  host  to 
the  poor  dog  who  comes  under  your  roof  for  shelter.  My 
rights  are  sacred.     Even  the  wild  Arab — " 

He  paused  abruptly.  Over  Wayne's  shoulder,  through 
the  window  still  open  to  the  terrace,  he  saw  a  figure  cross 
the  darkness.  Could  his  pursuers  be  waiting  outside  for 
their  chance  to  spring  on  him  .?  A  perceptible  fraction  of  a 
second  went  by  before  he  told  himself  he  must  have  been 
mistaken. 

"Even  the  wild  Arab  would  think  them  so,"  he  concluded, 
his  glance  shifting  rapidly  between  the  judge  and  the  window 
open  behind  him. 

21 


m 


■Tt"^  ;■.»■■  '  1-" 


I  III 


THE        H^  I  L    D        O   LIVE 

"But  I'm  not  a  wild  Arab,"  Wayne  replied.     "My  first 
duty  IS  toward  my  country  and  its  oi^anized  society." 

I  don't  think  so.  Your  first  duty  is  toward  the  man  you 
know  you've  sentenced  wrongly.  Fate  has  shown  you  an 
unusual  mercy  m  giving  you  a  chance  to  help  him." 

"I  can  be  sorry  for  the  sentence  and  yet  feel  that  I  could 
not  have  acted  otherwise." 
"Then  what  are  you  going  to  do  now?" 
"What  would  you  expect  me  to  do  but  hand  you  back  to 
justice? 
"How?" 

There  was  a  suggestion  of  physical  disdain  in  the  tone  of 
the  laconic  question,  as  well  as  in  the  look  he  fixed  on  the 
neat  m.ddle-aged  man  doing  his  best  to  be  cool  and  col- 
lected. Wayne  glanced  over  his  shoulder  toward  'he 
telephone  on  the  wall.  Norrie  Ford  understod  and  spoke 
quickly:  "^ 

"Yes;  you  could  ring  up  the  police  at  Greenport,  but  I 
could  strangle  you  before  you  crossed  the  floor  " 

"So  you  could;  but  would  you  ?  If  you  did.  should  you 
be  any  better  off?  Should  you  be  as  well  off  as  you  are 
now?  As  It  IS,  there  is  a  possibility  of  a  miscarriage  of 
justice,  of  which  one  day  you  may  get  the  benefit.  There 
would  be  no  such  possibility  then.  You  would  be  tracked 
down  within  forty-eight  hours." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  argue;  I've  no  intention—"  Once 
more  he  paused.  The  same  shadow  had  Hitted  across  the 
dark  space  outside,  this  time  with  a  distinct  flutter  of  a 
white  dress.  He  could  only  think  it  was  some  one  getting 
help  together;  and  while  he  went  on  to  finish  his  sentence 
in  words,  all  his  subconscious  faculties  were  at  work 
ieeking  an  escape  from  the  trap  in  which  he  was  taken. 
23 


THE        H^  I   L   D 


OLIVE 


"I've  no  intention  of  doing  violence  unless  I'm  driven  to 
it—" 

"  But  if  you  are  driven  to  it —  ?" 

"I've  a  right  to  defend  myself  Organized  society,  ai 
you  call  it,  has  put  me  where  it  has  no  further  claim  upon 
me.  I  must  fight  against  it  single-handed — and  I'll  do  it. 
I  shall  spare  neither  man  nor  woman — nor  woman" — he 
raised  his  voice  so  as  to  be  heard  outside — "who  stands  in 
my  way." 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  looked  defiantly  out  into  the 
night.  As  if  in  response  to  this  challenge  a  tall,  white  figure 
•uddenly  emerged  from  the  darkness  and  stood  plainly  before 
him. 

It  was  a  girl,  whose  movements  were  curiously  quick  and 
silent,  as  she  beckoned  to  him,  over  the  head  of  the  judge, 
who  sat  with  his  back  toward  her. 

"Then  all  the  more  reason  why  society  should  protect 
itself  against  you,"  Wayne  began  again;  but  Ford  was  no 
longer  listening.  His  attention  was  wholly  fixed  on  the 
girl,  who  continued  to  beckon  noiselessly,  fluttering  for 
an  instant  close  to  the  threshold  of  the  room,  then  with- 
drawing suddenly  to  the  very  edge  of  the  terrace,  waving  a 
white  scarf  in  token  that  he  should  follow  her.  She  had 
repeated  her  action  again  and  again,  beckoning  with 
renewed  insistence,  before  he  understood  and  made  up  his 
mind. 

"I  don't  say  that  I  refuse  to  help  you,"  Wayne  was 
saying.  "My  sympathy  with  you  is  very  sincere.  If  I 
can  get  your  sentence  commuted —  In  fact,  a  reprieve  is 
almost  certain — " 

With  a  dash  as  lithe  and  sudden  as  that  which  had  brought 
him  in.  Ford  was  out  on  the  terrace,  following  the  white 
as 


f 


ft 


mn  .1..  |jl»      Tim  w„  „„  „         j      ^  > 

in   the  concentration  of  his  effnrt  f^  t  l 

24 


iii.''T:aB'.^i>lX--^' 


THE        WILD        0    L   I   V  E 

had  little  notion  of  the  distance  they  were  covering.  He 
guessed  that  they  had  been  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  on  the 
way,  and  that  they  might  have  gone  a  mile,  when,  after 
waiting  for  him  to  come  almost  near  enough  to  speak  to 
her,  she  began  moving  in  a  direction  at  an  acute  angle  to 
that  by  wbi^h  they  had  come.  At  the  same  time  he  per- 
ceived that  they  were  on  the  side  of  a  low  wooded  mountain 
and  that  they  were  beating  their  way  round  it 

All  at  once  they  emerged  on  a  tiny  clearing — a  grassy  ledge 
on  the  slope.  Through  the  starlight  he  could  see  the  hill- 
tide  break  away  steeply  into  a  vaporous  gorge,  while  above 
him  the  mountain  raised  a  black  dome  amid  the  serried 
points  of  the  sky-line.  The  dryad-like  creature  beckoned 
him  forward  with  her  scarf,  until  suddenly  she  stopped 
with  the  decisive  pause  of  one  who  has  reached  her  goal. 
Coming  up  with  her,  he  saw  her  unlock  the  door  of  a  small 
cabin,  which  had  hitherto  not  detached  itself  from  the 
surrounding  darkness. 

"Go  in,"  she  whispered.  "Don't  strike  a  light.  There 
are  biscuits  somewhere,  in  a  box.  Grope  for  them.  There*! 
a  couch  in  a  corner." 

Without  allowing  him  to  speak,  she  foiced  him  gently 
over  the  threshold  and  closed  the  door  upon  him.  Standing 
inside  in  the  darkness,  he  heard  the  grating  of  her  key  in 
the  lock,  and  the  rustle  of  her  skirts  as  she  sped  away. 


i:    !■ 


m 

>•"  a  kind  of  wonder   whl  t^     U  iT  '^''"  ='"''  "g'"" 

realizarion  of  where  he  was      wl  ^ ''P^"'^^,  and  th. 

reconstruct  the  events  oT.he  .''  ''"''  *"-  "     ="'''«  «" 

'"■'-self  on  his  elbow  and  t/rf'"^  '"'^"'"'  '"••  "'"'"J 
•norning  twilight  P"""^  '''^°"'  '"'"  ^  the  din, 

J^h:t:^:/;r::^~^>yw.s^ 

cabin,  which  was  fairly  spacio,,?  ''°'"''"  '"•■""''  "^  "» 

pinned  at  intervals,  whL  „„  i":  T"°''"  ^''«'^''-  -"« 
fireplace  one  or  t^o  .lod"f^^rr '  oT"  ^"  =■  ''"^'^'^ 
a  pa,r  of  snow-shoes  were  crossed  ,,^  ".antelpiec. 

'^hich  hung  a  view  of  rh,  V  rl  '^""r-'t.ons,  between 
■n  =■  cornef  was  .W  '  aXKf  ^^  ^"^  '^y-%- 
worn    by   Canadian,    ^     ."^'"*  X  'he  sort  ot  blanket  coat 

^<«.j...,::;::;jz°!  „"n  v-  '""■  •-' 


TJ{  E        ly  I  L   D        0_LJ   V  E 

Uy  on  the  floor.  His  gaze  travelled  I.rst  to  the  large  apron, 
•c  pinafore,  on  a  peg  fastened  in  a  door  inimediatily  beside 
hit  couch.  The  d(K,r  suggested  an  inner  room,  and  he  got 
■p  promptly  to  explore  it.  It  proved  to  he  cramped  and 
dark,  lighted  only  from  the  larger  apartment,  u!j\h  in  its 
tuni  had  hut  the  one  high  north  window  of  the  oroinary 
•tudio.  The  sm;.l|  room  was  little  n^ore  than  a  shed  or 
lean-to,"  serving  the  purposes  of  kitchen  and  storeroom 
combined.  The  arrangements  o(  the  whole  c;.l.in  showed 
that  some  one  had  built  it  with  a  view  to  passing  in  seclusion 
a  few  duys  at  a  time  without  forsaking  the  simpler  .-imenities 
of  civilized  life;  and  it  was  clear  that  that  "sun-e  one"  was 
a  woman.  What  interested  Ford  chiefly  for  the  moment 
was  tne  discovery  of  a  sealed  glass  jar  of  w.tcr,  from  which 
he  was  able  to  sLike  his  twenty  hours'  thirst. 

Return!].-  to  the  room  in  which  he  hr.<!  slept,  he  drew 
back  the  grctn  silk  curtain  covering  toe  north  light  in  order 
to  take  his  bearings.  As  he  had  guessed  on  the  previous 
night,  the  slope  on  which  the  cabin  was  perched  broke  steep- 
ly down  into  a  wooded  gorge,  beyond  which  the  lower  hills 
rolled  in  decreasing  magnitude  to  the  shore  of  Champlain, 
risible  from  this  point  of  view  in  glimpses,  less  as  an  inland 
sea  than  like  a  chain  of  lakelets.  Sunrise  over  Vermont 
flooded  the  waters  with  tints  of  rose  and  saffron,  but  made 
of  the  Green  Mountains  a  long,  gigantic  mass  of  purple- 
black,  twisting  its  jagged  outline  toward  the  north  into  the 
Hog's  Back  and  the  Camel's  Hump  with  a  kind  of  mon- 
strous grace.  To  the  east,  in  New  York,  the  Adirondacks, 
with  the  sunlight  full  upon  them,  shot  up  jade-colort  d  peaks 
into  the  electric  blue  — the  scarred  pyramid  of  Giaytop 
•tanding  forth  dark,  detached,  and  alone,  like  a  battered 
veteran  sentinel. 

>7 


I  H 


% 


•  w 


THE        ^  I   L    D 


OLIVE 


In  an  access  of  conscious  hatred  of  this  vast  panoramic 
beauty  vyhich  had  become  the  background  of  his  tragedy, 
Ford  pulled  the  curtain  into  place  again  and  turned  once 
more  to  the  mter.or  of  the  room.     It  began  to  seem  more 
•trange  to  h.m  the  more  it  grew  familiar.     Why  was  he 
here.?     Hew  long  was  he  to  stay.?     How  was  he  to  get 
away  aga.n  .?     H..d  this  girl  caught  him  like  a  rat  in  a  trap 
or  d.d  she  mean  well  by  him  ?     If,  as  he  supposed,  she  wa, 
Waynes   daughter,   she  would   probably  not   be   slow   in 
carrymg  out   her  father's   plan  of  handing   him   b.ck   to 
jusfce-and  yet  his  mind  refused  to  connect  the  wraith  of 
the  night  before  with  either  police  work  or  betrayal      Her 
appearance  had  been  so  dim  and  fleeting  that  he  could  have 
fancied  her  the  dryad  of  a  dream,  had  it  not  been  fur  his 
surroundings. 

He  began  to  examine  them  once  more,  inspecting  the 
water-colors  on  the  wall  one  by  one,  in  search  of  some°clew 
to  her  personality.     The  first  sketch  was  of  a   nun  in  a 
convent  garden-the  background  vaguely  French,  nnd  yet 
with  a  difference.    The  next  was  of  a  trapper,  or  voyageur 
pushing  a  canoe  into  the  waters  of  a  wild  northern  lake 
Ihe  next  was  a  group  of  wigwams  with  squaws  and  children 
m  the   foreground.     Then   came  more  nuns;    then   more 
voyageurs  with  their  canoes;    then  more  Indians  and  wie- 
wams.     It  occurred  to  Ford  that  the  nuns  might  have  been 
pamted  from  life,  the  voyageurs  and  Indians  from  imagina- 
tion.    He  turned  to  the  two  framed  drawings  on  the  chinmey- 
piece.     Both   represented   winter  scenes.     In   the   one   a 
sturdy  voyageur  was  conveying  his  wife  and  small  personal 
belongings  across  the  frozen  snow  on  a  sled  dra  vn  by  a 
team  of  dogs.     In  the  other  a  woman,  apparently  the  same 
woman  as  m  the  preceding  sketch,  had  fallen  in  the  inidst 
28 


f^i^rP   :sf- 


THE        fF  I  L   D 


I    V  E 


of  a  blinding  storn,  v'-mc  n  tail  man  of  European  aspect — 
decidedly  not  the  vovageur— \.„s  standing  beside  her  with 
a  baby  in  his  a  lis.  Thefte  A-ere  clearly  fancy  pictures, 
and,  so  it  seemed  'o  t'otn  the  work  of  one  who  was  trying 
to  recapture  some  almost  forgotten  memory.  In  any  case 
he  was  too  deeply  engrossed  by  his  own  situation  to  dwell 
on  them  further. 

He  wheeled  round  again  toward  the  centre  of  the  room, 
impatiently  casting  about  him  for  something  to  eat.  The 
tin  box,  from  which  he  had  devoured  all  the  biscuits,  lay 
empty  on  the  floor,  but  he  picked  it  up  and  ate  hungrily 
the  few  crumbs  sticking  in  its  corners.  He  ransacked  the 
small  dark  room  in  the  hope  of  finding  more,  but  vainly.  As 
far  as  he  could  see,  the  cabin  had  never  been  used  for  the 
purpose  it  was  meant  to  serve,  nor  ever  occupied  for  more 
than  a  few  hours  at  a  time.  It  had  probably  been  built 
in  a  caprice  that  had  passed  with  its  completion.  He  guessed 
something  from  the  fact  that  there  was  no  visible  attempt  to 
sketch  the  scene  before  the  door,  though  the  site  had 
evidently  been  chosen  for  its  beauty. 

He  had  nothing  by  which  to  measure  time,  but  he  knew 
that  precious  hours  which  he  might  have  utilized  for  escape 
were  passing.  He  began  to  chafe  at  the  dela)'.  With  the 
impulse  of  youth  to  be  active,  he  longed  to  be  out,  where 
he  could  at  least  use  his  feet.  His  clothes  had  dried  upon 
him;  in  spite  of  his  hunger  he  was  refreshed  by  his  night's 
sleep;  he  was  convinced  that,  once  in  the  open,  he  could 
elude  capture.  He  pulled  back  the  curtain  again  in  order 
to  reconnoitre.  It  was  well  to  be  as  familiar  as  possible 
with  the  immediate  lay  of  the  land,  so  as  to  avail  himself 
of  any  advantages  it  might  ofl"er. 

The  colors  of  sunrise  had  disappeared,  and  he  judged 
3  29 


-I'l 

m 


•flf 


i 

(I 


THE        WILD        O   L    I  V  E 

that  it  must  be  seven  or  eight  o'clock.  Between  the  rifts 
of  the  lower  hills  the  lake  was  flashing  silver,  while  where 
Vermont  had  been  nothing  but  a  mass  of  shadow,  blue- 
green  mountains  were  emerging  in  a  triple  row,  from  which 
the  last  veils  of  vapor  were  being  dragged  up  into  the  firma- 
ment. On  the  left,  the  Adirondacks  were  receding  into 
translucent  dimness,  in  a  lilac  haze  of  heat. 

With  an  effort  to  get  back  the  woodcraft  suddenly 
inspired  by  his  first  dash  for  freedom,  lie  ran  his  eye  over 
the  landscape,  noting  the  points  with  which  he  was  familiar. 
To  the  west,  in  a  niche  between  Graytop  and  the  double 
peak  of  Windy  IVIountain,  he  could  place  the  county-town; 
to  the  north,  beyond  the  pretty  headlands  and  the  shining 
coves,  the  prison  of  Plattsviile  was  waiting  to  receive  him. 
Farther  to  the  north  was  Canada;  and  to  the  south  the 
great  waterway  led  toward  the  populous  mazes  of  New 
York. 

With  an  impatience  bordering  on  nervousness  he  realized 
that  these  general  facts  did  not  help  him.  He  must  avoid 
the  prison  and  the  county-town,  of  course;  while  both 
New  York  and  Canada  offered  him  ultimate  chances.  But 
his  most  pressing  dangers  lurked  in  the  immediate  fore- 
ground; and  there  he  could  see  nothing  but  an  unsu^gestive 
slope  of  ash  and  pine.  The  rapidity  of  instinct  by  which 
last  night  he  had  known  exactly  what  to  do  gave  place 
this  morning  to  his  slower  and  more  characteristic  mental 
processes. 

He  was  still  gazing  outward  in  perplexity,  when,  through 
the  trees  beyond  the  grassy  ledge,  he  caught  the  flicker  of 
somethmg  white.  He  pressed  closer  to  the  pane  for  a 
better  view,  and  a  few  seconds  later  a  girl,  whom  he  recog- 
nized as  the  nymph  of  last  night,  came  out  of  the  forest, 
30 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

followed  by  a  f:iwn-coIored  collie.  She  walked  smoothly 
and  swiftly,  carrying  a  large  basket  with  her  right  hand, 
while  with  her  left  she  motioned  him  away  from  the  window. 
He  stepped  back,  leaping  to  the  door  as  she  unlocked  it, 
in  order  to  relieve  her  of  her  burden. 

^^  "You  mustn't  do  that,"  she  .nil.  speaking  quickly. 
"You  mustn't  look  out  of  the  wir.d  ,.  .  :  (  .;;  c  to  the  door. 
There  are  a  hundred  men  beating  the  mountain  to  find 
you." 

She  closed  the  door  and  locked  it  on  the  inside.  While 
Ford  lifted  her  basket  to  the  desk  in  the  centre  of  the  room 
she  drew  the  green  curtain  hastily,  covering  the  window. 
Her  movements  were  so  rapid  that  he  could  catch  no  glimpse 
of  her  face,  though  he  had  time  to  note  again  the  curious 
silence  that  marked  her  acts.  The  dog  emitted  a  low 
growl. 

"You  must  go  in  here,"  she  said,  decisively,  t'  rowing 
open  the  door  of  the  inner  room.  "You  mustn't  speak  or 
look  out  unless  I  tell  you.  I'll  bring  you  your  breakfast 
presently.     Lie  down,  Micmac." 

The  gesture  by  which  she  forced  him  across  the  threshold 
was  compelling  rather  than  commanding.  Before  he 
realized  that  he  had  obeyed  her,  he  was  standing  alone  in 
the  darkness,  with  the  sound  of  a  low  voice  of  liquid  quality 
echoing  in  his  ears.  Of  her  face  he  had  got  only  the  hint 
of  dark  eyes  flashing  with  an  eager,  non-Caucasian  bright- 
ness—eyes that  drew  their  fire  from  a  source  alien  to  that 
of  any  Aryan  race. 

But  he  brushed  that  impression  away  as  foolish.     Her 

words  had  the  unmistakable  note  of  cultivation,  while  a 

glance  at  her  person  showed  her  to  be  a  lady.     He  could 

see,  too,  that  her  dress,  though  simple,  was  according  to 

ai 


__Vmm*Bmmsat 


THE 


WILD        OLIVE 


the  standard  of  means  and  fashion.  She  was  no  Poca- 
hontas; and  yet  the  thought  of  Pocahontas  came  to  him. 
Certainly  there  was  in  her  tones,  as  well  as  in  her  move- 
ments, something  akin  to  this  vast  aboriginal  nature  around 
him,  out  of  which  she  seemed  to  spring  as  the  human 
element  in  its  beauty. 

He  was  still  thinking  of  this  when  the  door  opened  and 
tlie  came  in  again,  carrying  a  plate  piled  high  with  cold 
meat  and  bread-and-butter. 

"I'm  sorry  it's  only  this,"  she  smiled,  as  she  placed  it 
before  him;  "but  I  had  to  take  what  I  could  get — and  what 
wouldn't  be  missed.     I'll  try  to  do  better  in  future." 

He  noted  the  matter-of-fact  tone  in  which  she  uttered 
the  concluding  words,  as  though  they  were  to  have  plenty 
of  time  together;  but  for  the  moment  he  was  too  fiercely 
hungry  to  spe.ik.  For  a  few  seconds  she  stood  off,  watching 
him  eat,  after  which  she  withdrew,  with  the  light  swiftness 
that  characterized  all   her  motions. 

He  had  nearly  finished  his  meal  when  she  returned  again. 

"I've  brought  you  these,"  she  said,  not  without  a  touch 
of  shyness,  against  which  she  struggled  by  making  her  tone 
as  com.nicnplace  as  possible.  "I  shall  bring  you  more 
things  by  degrees." 

On  a  chair  beside  that  on  which  he  was  sitting  she  laid 
a  pair  of  slippers,  a  pair  of  socks,  a  shirt,  a  collar,  and 
a  tie. 

He  jumped  up  hastily,  less  in  surprise  than  in  confusion. 

"I  can't  take  anything  of  Judge  Wayne's — "  he  began  to 
ttammer;   but  she  interrupted  him. 

"I  understand  your  feelings  about  that,"  she  said,  simplv 
"They're  not  Judge  Wayne's;  they  were  my  father's,  i 
have  plenty  more." 

32 


JJitiiLv 


THE        fr  I  L   D        PL   I   V  E 

In  his  relief  at  finding  she  wat  not  Wayne's  daughter  h( 
fpoke  awkwardly. 

"Your  father  ?     Is  he— dead  ?" 

"Yes;  he's  dead.  You  needn't  be  afraid  to  take  the 
things.  He  would  have  liked  to  help  a  man  — in  your 
position." 

"In  my  position?     Then  you  know— who  I  am?" 

"Yes;  you're  Norrie  Ford.  I  saw  that  as  soon  as  I 
chanced  on  the  terrace  last  night." 

"And  you're  not  afraid  of  me  ?" 

"I  am— a  little,"  she  admitted;  "but  that  doesn't  matter." 
^  "You  needn't  be—"  he  began  to  explain,  but  she  checked 
him  again. 

"We  mustn't  talk  now.  I  must  shut  the  door  and  leave 
you  in  the  dark  all  day.  Men  will  be  passing  by,  and  they 
mustn't  hear  you.  I  shall  be  painting  in  the  studio,  so  th.-.t 
they  won't  suspect  anything,  if  you  keep  still." 

Allowing  him  no  opportunity  to  speak  again,  she  closed 
the  door,  leaving  him  once  more  in  darkness.  Sitting  in 
the  constraint  she  imposed  upon  him,  he  could  hear  her 
moving  in  the  outer  room,  where,  owing  to  the  lightness  of 
the  wooden  partition,  it  was  not  difficult  to  guess  wh.it  she 
was  doing  at  any  given  moment.  He  knew  when  she 
opened  the  outer  door  and  moved  the  easel  toward  the 
entrance.  He  knew  when  she  took  down  the  apron  from 
its  peg  and  pinned  it  on.  He  knew  when  she  drew  up  a 
chair  and  pretended  to  set  to  work.  In  the  hour  or  two  of 
silence  that  ensued  he  was  sure  that,  whatever  she  might 
be  doing  with  her  brush,  she  was  keeping  eye  and  ear  alert 
in  his  defence. 

Who   was    she  ?     What   interest   had    she   in    his    fate  ? 
'Vliat  power  had  raised  her  up  to  help  him  ?     Even  yet  he 
33 


V 


T  HE        WILD        OLIVE 

had  scarcely  seen  her  face;  but  he  had  received  an  impres- 
sion of  intelligence.  He  was  sure  she  was  no  more  than 
a  girl— certainly  not  twenty— and  yet  she  acted  with  the 
decision  of  maturity.  At  the  same  time  there  was  about 
her  that  suggestion  of  a  wild  origin— that  something  not 
wholly  tamed  to  the  dictates  of  civilized  life— which  per- 
sisted in  his  imagination,  even  if  he  could  not  verify  it  in 

fact. 

Twice  in  the  course  of  the  mornmg  he  heard  voices. 
Men  spoke  to  her  through  the  open  doorway,  and  she 
replied.     Once  he  distinguished  her  words. 

'Oh  no,"  she  called  out  to  some  one  at  a  distance.  "  I'm 
not  afraid.  He  won't  do  me  any  harm.  I've  got  Micmac 
with  me.  I  often  stay  here  all  day,  but  I  shr.'l  go  home 
early.  Thanks,"  she  added,  in  response  to  some  further 
hint.  "I'd  rather  not  have  any  one  here.  I  never  can 
paint  unless  I'm  quite  alone." 

Her  tone  was  light,  and  Ford  fancied  that  as  she  spoke 
she  smiled  at  the  passers-by  who  had  thought  it  right  to 
warn  her  against  himself;  but  when,  a  few  minutes  later,  she 
pushed  open  the  door  softly,  the  gravity  that  seemed  more 
natural  to  her  had  returned. 

"Several  parties  of  men  have  gone  by,"  she  whispered. 
"They  have  no  suspicion.  They  won't  have,  if  you  keep 
still.  They  think  you  have  slipped  away  from  here,  and 
have  gone  back  toward  the  lumber  camps.  This  is  your 
lunch,"  she  continued,  hastily,  placing  more  food  before 
him.  "  It  will  have  to  be  your  dinner,  too.  It  will  be  safer 
for  me  not  to  come  into  this  room  again  to-day.  You  must 
not  go  out  into  the  studio  till  you're  sure  it's  dark.  No 
noise.  No  light.  I've  put  an  extra  rug  on  the  couch  in 
case  you're  chilly  in  the  night." 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

She  spoke  breathlessly,  in  whispers,  and,  having  finished, 
slipped  away. 

"You're  awLIly  good,"  he  whispered  back.  "Won't  you 
tell  me  your  name  ?" 

"Hush!"  she  warned  him,  as  she  closed  the  door. 

He  stood  still  in  the  darkness,  leaving  his  food  untastej, 
listening  to  the  soft  rustle  of  her  movements  beyond  the 
wall.  Except  that  he  heard  no  more  voices,  the  afternoon 
passed  like  the  morning.  At  the  end  of  what  seemed  to 
him  interminable  hours  he  knew  by  acute  attention  that 
she  hung  her  apron  on  its  peg,  put  on  her  hat,  and  took  up 
her  basket,  while  Micmac  rose  and  shook  himself  Pres- 
ently she  closed  the  door  of  the  cabin  and  locked  it  on  the 
outside.  He  fancied  he  could  almost  hear  her  step  as  she 
sped  over  the  grass  and  into  the  forest.  Only  then  did  the 
tension  of  his  nerves  relax,  as,  dropping  to  his  chair  in  the 
darkness,  he  began  to  eat. 


iV 


JHE  two  or  three  days  that  followed  were  much 
like  the  first.  Each  morning  she  came  early, 
bringing  him  food,  and  such  articlts  of  cloth- 
ing as  she  thought  he  could  wear.  By  de- 
i  grees  she  provided  him  with  a  complete 
change  of  raiment,  and  though  the  fit  was  tolerable,  they 
laughed  together  at  the  transformation  produced  in  him. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her  smile,  and  even  in  the 
obscurity  of  the  inner  room  where  she  still  kept  him  secluded 
he  noted  the  vividness  with  which  her  habitually  grave  feat- 
ures lighted  up.  Micmac,  too,  became  friendly,  inferring 
with  the  instinct  of  his  race  that  Ford  was  an  object  to  be 
guarded. 

"No  one  would  know  you  now,"  the  girl  declared,  iur- 
reying  him  with  satisfaction. 

"  Were  these  things  all  your  father's  ?"  he  asked,  with  a 
new  attempt  to  penetrate  the  mystery  of  her  personality. 

"Yes,"  she  returned,  absently,  continuing  her  inspection 
of  him.  "They  were  sent  to  me,  and  I  kept  them.  I  never 
knew  why  I  did;   but  I  suppose  it  was — for  this." 

"He  must  have  been  a  tall  man?"  Ford  hazarded, 
again. 

"Yes,  he  must  have  been,"  she  returned,  unwarily.  Thea, 
fceling  that  the  admission  required  some  explanation,  iht 
36 


T  H 


IV  1  L   D 


OLIVE 


added,  with  a  touch  of  embarrassment,  "I  never  saw  him 

not  that  I  can  remem'  cr." 

'Then  he  died  a  long  time  ago?" 

Her  reply  came  reluctantly,  after  some  delay: 

"Not  so  very  long — about  four  years  ago  now." 

"And  yet  you  hadn't  seen  him  since  you  were  a  child  ?" 

"There  were  reasons.  We  mustn't  talk.  Some  one  may 
pass  and  hear  us." 

He  could  see  that  her  hurry  in  finishing  the  small  tasks 
«he  had  come  in  to  perform  for  him  arose  not  so  much  from 
precaution  as  from  a  desire  to  escape  from  this  particular 
subject. 

"I  suppose  you  could  tel!  me  his  name  ?"  he  persisted. 

Her  hands  moved  deftly,  producing  order  among  th« 
things  he  had  left  in  confusion,  but  she  remained  silent 
It  was  a  silence  in  which  he  recognized  an  element  of  pro. 
test,  though  he  ignored  i:. 

"Vou  could  tell  me  his  name?"  he  asked,  again. 

"His  name,"  she  said,  at  last,  "wouldn't  convey  anything 
to  you.     It  wouldn'   do  you  any  good  to  know  it." 

"It  would  gratify  my  curiosity.  I  should  think  you  might 
do  as  much  as  that  for  me." 

"I'm  doing  a  great  deal  for  you  as  it  is.  I  don't  think 
you  should  ask  for  more." 

Her  tone  was  one  of  reproach  rather  than  of  annoyance, 
and  he  was  left  with  a  sense  of  having  committed  an  indi*. 
cretion.  The  consciousness  brought  with  it  the  perception 
that  in  a  measure  he  was  growing  used  to  his  position.  H« 
was  beginning  to  take  it  for  granted  that  this  girl  should 
come  and  minister  to  his  wants.  She  herself  did  it  so  simply, 
10  much  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  the  circumstance  lost 
much  of  its  strangeness.  Now  and  then  he  could  detect 
37 


1 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

■ome  confufion  in  her  manner  as  she  served  him,  but  he 
could  see  too  that  she  surmounted  it,  in  view  of  the  fact 
that  for  him  the  situation  was  one  of  life  and  death.  She 
was  clearly  not  indifferent  to  elementary  social  usapes;  she 
only  saw  that  the  case  was  one  in  which  they  did  not  obtain. 
In  his  long,  unoccupied  hours  of  darkness  it  distracted  hii 
thoughts  from  his  own  peril  to  speculate  about  her,  and 
when  she  appeared  his  questions  were  the  more  blunt  be- 
cause of  the  small  opportunity  she  allowed  for  asking  them. 

"Won't  they  miss  you  at  home  ?"  he  inquired,  on  the  next 
occasion  when  she  entered  his  cell. 

She  paused  with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"At  home ?     Wi-tie  do  you  mean ?" 

"Why — where  y^^  live;  where  your  mother  lives." 

"My  mother  died  a  few  months  after  I  was  born." 

"Oh!    But  even  so,  you  live  somewhere,  don't  you?' 

"I  do;   but  they  don't  miss  me  there,  if  that's  what  you 
want  to  know." 

"I  was  only  afraid,"  he  said,  apologetically,  "that  you 
were  giving  me  too  much  of  your  time." 

"I've  nothing  else  to  do  with  it.  I  shall  be  only  too  glad 
if  I  can  help  you  to  escape." 

"Why  ?    Why  should  you  care  about  me  ?" 

"I  don't,"  she  said,  simply;  "at  least,  I  don't  know  that 
I  do." 

"Oh,  then  you're  helping  me  just — on  general  principles  V 

"Quite  so." 

"Well,"  he  smiled,  "mayn't  I  ask  why,  again  ?" 

"Because  I  don't  like  the  law." 

"You  mean  that  you  don't  like  the  law  as  a  whole?— of 
■  this  law  in  particular  ?" 

'J  don't  like  any  law.    I  don't  like  anything  about  it. 
^8 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

But,"  she  added,  resorting  to  her  usual  method  of  escape, 
"we  mustn't  talk  any  more  now.  Some  men  passed  here 
this  morning,  and  they  may  be  coming  back.  They've 
given  up  looking  for  you;  they  are  convinced  you're  up  in 
the  lumber  camps,  but  all  the  same  we  must  be  careful  still." 

He  had  no  further  speech  with  her  that  day,  and  the  next 
she  remained  at  the  cabin  little  more  than  an  hour. 

"It's  just  as  well  for  me  not  to  excite  curiosity,"  she  ex- 
plained to  him  before  leaving;  "and  you  needn't  be  uneasy 
now.  They've  stopped  the  hunt  altogether.  They  say 
there's  not  a  spot  within  a  radius  often  miles  of  Greenport 
'  that  they  haven't  searched.  It  would  never  occur  to  any 
one  that  you  could  be  here.  Every  one  knows  me;  and  so 
the  thought  that  I  could  be  helping  you  would  be  the  last  in 
their  minds  " 

"  And  have  you  no  remorse  at  betraying  their  confidence  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Most  of  them,"  sne  declared,  "are 
very  well  pleased  to  think  you've  got  away;  and  even  if  they 
weren't  I  should  never  feel  remorse  for  helping  any  one  to 
evade  the  law." 

"You  seem  to  have  a  great  objection  to  the  law." 

"Well,  haven't  you  ?" 

"\es;  but  in  my  case  it's  comprehensible," 

"So  it  is  in  mine— if  you  only  knew." 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  steadily,  ''this  is  as 
good  a  time  as  any  to  assure  you  that  the  law  has  done  me 
wrong." 

He  waited  for  her  to  say  something;  but  as  she  stroked 
Micmac's  head  in  silence,  he  continued. 

"I  never  committed  the  crime  of  which  they  found  me 
guilty." 

He  waited  again  for  some  intimation  of  her  confidence. 
39 


aaeiMM 


T  HE        ly  I   L   D        O   L   I   l^  E 

"Their  stiini  of  circumstantial  evidence  was  plausible 
enough,  I  adiui't.     Ihe  only  weak  point  about  it  was  that 

it  wasn't  true."  ,  ■  r    i    l 

Even  through  the  obscurity  of  his  refuge  he  could  feel  the 
.uspension  of  expression  in  her  bearing,  and  could  unagine 
it  bringing  a  kind  ol  eclipse  over  her  eyes.  _ 

"He  was  very  cruel  to  you— your  uncle  !-wasnt  he? 
ihe  asked,  at  last. 

"He  was  very  cantankerous;  but  that  wouldn  t  be  a  rea- 
,on  for  shooting  him  in  his  sleep-whatever  I  may  have  said 
when  in  a  rage." 

"  I  should  think  it  might  be." 

He  started.  If  it  were  not  for  the  necessity  of  making 
no  noise  he  would  have  laughed. 

"Are  you  so  bloodtliirst) — ?"  he  began. 
"Oh  no,  I'm  not;    but  1  should  think  it  is  what  a  man 
would  do.'    My  father  wouldn't  have  submitted  to  it.     1 
know  he  killed  one  man;   and  he  may  have  killed  twj  or 
three." 

Ford  whistled  under  his  breath. 

"So  that,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "your  objection  to  the 
law  is— hereditary."  , 

"My  objection  to  the  law  is  because  it  is  unjust.  Ihe 
world  is  full  of  injustice,"  she  added,  indignantly,  "and  the 
laws  men  live  by  create  it." 

"And  your  aim  is  to  defeat  them?" 
"I  can't  talk  any  more  now,"  she  said,  reverting  to  an 
explanatory  tone  of  voice.  "I  must  go.  I've  arranged 
everything  for  you  for  the  day.  If  you  are  very  quiet  you 
can  sit  in  the  studio  and  read;  but  you  must'nt  look  out  at 
the  window,  or  even  draw  back  the  curtain.  If  you  hear  a 
step  outside,  you  must  creep  in  here  and  shut  the  door. 
40 


THE        fV  I  L   D        O    L   I   V  B 

And  you  needn't  be  impatient;  because  I'm  going  to  speiii 
the  day  workini;  out  a  plan  for  yout  escape." 

But  when  slit  appeared  next  morning  she  declined  to  git« 
details  ol'tlie  plan  she  had  in  mind.  She  preferred  to  work 
it  out  alone,  ^h(•  said,  and  give  him  the  outlines  only  when 
she  had  settled  tlum.  It  chanced  to  he  a  day  of  drenching 
summer  rain,  aiij  I'ord,  with  a  renewed  effort  to  fet  some 
clew  to  her  identity,  expressed  his  surprise  thnt  she  should 
have  been  allowed  to  venture  out. 

"Oh,  no  one  worries  about  what  I  do,"  she  said,  in- 
differently.    "I  po  about  as  I  choose." 

"So  much  the  better  for  mc,"  he  laughed.  "That's  how 
jrou  came  to  be  wandering  on  old  Wayne's  terrace,  just  in 
the  nick  of  time.  What  stumps  me  is  the  promptness  with 
which  you  thought  of  stowing  me  away." 

"It  wasn't  promptness,  exactly.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
had  worked  the  whole  thing  out  beforehand." 

His  eyebrows  went  up  incredulously.     "For  mc?" 

"No,  not  for  you;  for  anybody.  Ever  since  my  guardian 
allowed  me  to  build  the  studio — last  year — I've  imagined 
how  easy  it  would  be  for  some — some  hunted  person  to  stay 
hidden  here,  almost  indefinitely.  I've  tried  to  fancy  it,  when 
I'»e  had  nothing  better  to  do." 

"You  don't  seem  to  have  had  anything  better  to  do  Teiy 
often,"  he  observed,  glancing  about  the  cabin. 

"If  you  mean  that  I  haven't  painted  much,  that's  quite 
«fue.  I  thought  I  couldn't  do  without  a  studio — till  I  got 
one.  But  when  I've  come  here,  I'm  afraid  it's  generally 
been  to — to  indulge  in  day-dreams." 

"Day-dreams  of  helping  prisoners  to  escape.  It  wouldn't 
he  every  girl's  fancy,  but  it's  not  for  me  to  complain  of 
Aat" 


T  H  E        WILD        OLIVE 

"My  father  would  have  wanted  me  to  do  it,"  she  declared, 
as  if  in  self-justification.  "A  woman  once  helped  him  to 
get  out  of  prison." 

"Good  for  her!    Who  was  she?" 

Having  asked  the  question  lightly,  in  a  boyish  impulse 
to  talk,  he  was  surprised  to  see  her  show  -igns  of  em- 
barrassment. ,  . 

"She  was  my  mother,"  she  said,  after  an  mterval  m 
which  she  seemed  to  be  making  up  her  mind  to  give  the 

information.  .       t^     . 

In  the  manifest  difficulty  she  had  in  speakmg.  Ford  sprang 

to  her  aid. 

"That's  like  the  old  story  of  Gilbert  a  Becket— Thomas  a 

Becket's  father,  you  know." 

The  historical  reference  was  received  in  silence,  as  she 
bent  over  the  small  task  she  had  in  hand.  ^^ 

"He  married  the  woman  who  helped  him  out  of  prison, 
Ford  went  on,  for  her  enlightenment. 

She  raised  her  head  and  faced  him. 

"It  wasn't  like  the  story  of  Gilbert  a  Becket,"  she  said, 

quietly-  ,  .  ,  .  1 

It  took  some  seconds  of  Ford's  slow  thinking  to  puzzle 
out  the  meaning  of  this.  Even  then  he  might  have  pondered 
in  vain  had  it  not  been  for  the  flush  that  gradually  over- 
spread her  features,  and  brought  what  he  called  the  wild 
glint  into  her  eyes.  When  he  understood,  he  reddened  m 
his  own  turn,  making  matters  worse. 

"I    beg    your    pardon,"     he    stammered.     "I    never 

thought — "  .  1  1  • 

"You  needn't  beg  my  pardon,"  she  interrupted,  speakmg 
with  a  catch  in  her  breath.     "I  wanted  you  to  know.  .  .  . 
You've  asked  me  so  many  questions  that  it  seemed  as  if 
42 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

I  was  ashamed  of  my  father  and  mother  when  I  didn't 
answer.  ,  .  .  I'm  not  ashamed  of  them.  ...  I'd  rather 
you  knew.  .  .  .  Every  one  does — who  knows  me." 

Half  unconsciously  he  glanced  up  at  the  framed  sketches 
on  the  chimney-piece.  Her  eyes  followed  him,  and  she 
spoke  instantly; 

"You're  quite  right.     I  meant  that — for  them." 

They  were  standing  in  the  studio,  into  which  she  had 
allowed  him  to  come  from  the  stifling  darkness  of  the  inner 
room,  on  the  ground  that  the  rain  protected  them  against 
intrusion  from  outside.  During  their  conversation  she  had 
been  placing  the  easel  and  arranging  the  work  which  formed 
her  pretext  for  being  there,  while  Micmac,  stretched  on  the 
floor,  with  his  head  between  his  paws,  kept  a  half-sleepy 
eye  on  both  of  them. 

"Your  father  was  a  Canadian,  then  ?"  he  ventured  to  ask, 
as  she  seated  herself  with  a  palette  in  her  hand. 

"He  was  a  Virginian.  My  mother  was  the  wife  of  a 
French-Canadian  voyageur.  I  believe  she  had  a  strain  of 
Indian  blood.  The  voyageurs  and  their  families  generally 
have." 

Having  recovered  her  self-possession,  she  made  her  state- 
ments in  the  matter-of-fact  tone  she  used  to  hide  embarrass- 
ment, flicking  a  little  color  into  the  sketch  before  her  as  she 
spoke.  Ford  seated  himself  at  a  distance,  gazing  at  her 
with  a  kind  of  fascination.  Here,  then,  was  the  clew  to  that 
something  untamed  which  persisted  through  all  the  effects 
of  training  and  education,  as  a  wild  flavor  will  last  in  a 
carefully  cultivated  fruit.  His  curiosity  about  her  was  so 
intense  that,  notwithstanding  the  difliculty  with  which  she 
stated  her  facts,  it  overcame  his  prompting  to  spare  her. 

"  And  yet,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause,  in  which  he  seemed 
♦3 


THE        IV  I  L   D        0   L   I  r  E 

tt>  be  assimilating  the  information  she  had  given  him — "aak 
ytt  I  don't  see  how  that  explains  you." 

"I  suppose  it  doesn't— not  any  more  than  your  situatka 
explains  you." 

"My  situation  explains  me  perfectly,  because  I'm  the  ^- 
tim  of  a  wrong." 

"Well,  so  am  I— in  another  way.  I'm  made  to  suffer 
because  I'm  the  daughter  of  my  parents. 

"That's  a  rotten  shame,"  he  exclaimed,  in  boyish  tyor 
pathy.     "It  isn't  your  fault."  ' 

"Of  course  it  isn't,"  she  smiled,  wistfully.  "And  yet  I'd 
rather  suffer  with  the  parents  I  have  than  be  happy  with  any 
others." 

"I  suppose  that's  natural,"  he  admitted,  doubtfully. 

"I  wish  I  knew  more  about  them,"  she  went  on,  continu- 
ing to  give  light  touches  to  the  work  before  her,  and  now  and 
then  leaning  back  to  get  the  effect.  "I  never  understood 
why  my  father  was  in  prison  in  Canada." 

"Perhaps  it  was  when  he  killed  the  man,"  Ford  sug- 
gested. 

"No;  that  was  in  Virginia— at  least,  the  first  one.  His 
people  didn't  like  it.  That  was  the  reason  for  his  leaving 
home.  He  hated  a  settled  life;  and  so  he  wandered  away 
into  the  northwest  of  Canada.  It  was  in  the  days  when  they 
first  began  to  build  the  railways  there— when  there  were 
almost  no  people  except  the  trappers  and  the  voyageurs.  I 
was  born  on  the  very  shores  of  Hudson  Bay. 

"  But  you  didn't  stay  there  ?" 

"No.  I  was  only  a  very  little  child— not  old  enough  to 
remember- when  my  father  sent  me  down  to  Quebec,  to  the 
Ursuline  nuns.  He  never  saw  me  again.  I  lived  with  then 
nil  four  yeatf  ago.     I'm  eighteen  now. 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

"Why  didn't  he  send  you  to  his  people  ?  Hadn't  he  sis- 
ters ? — or  anything  Hke  that." 

"He  tried  to,  but  they  wouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with 
me." 

It  was  clearly  a  relief  to  her  to  talk  about  herself.  He 
guessed  that  she  rarely  had  an  opportunity  of  opening  her 
heart  to  any  one.  Not  till  this  morning  had  he  seen  her  in 
the  full  light  of  day;  and,  though  but  an  immature  judge, 
he  fancied  her  features  had  settled  themselves  into  lines  of 
reserve  and  pride  from  which  in  happier  circut  stances  they 
might  have  been  free.  Her  way  of  twisting  her  dark  hair — 
which  waved  over  the  brows  from  a  central  parting — into  the 
simplest  kind  of  knot  gave  her  an  air  of  sedateness  beyond 
her  years.  But  what  he  noticed  in  her  particularly  was  her 
eyes — not  so  much  because  they  were  wild,  dark  eyes,  with 
the  peculiar  fleeing  expression  of  startled  forest  things,  as 
because  of  the  pleading,  apologetic  look  that  comes  into  the 
eyes  of  forest  things  when  they  stand  at  bay.  It  was  when 
— for  seconds  only — the  pupils  shone  with  a  jet-like  blaze 
that  he  caught  what  he  called  the  non-Aryan  effect;  but 
that  glow  died  out  quickly,  leaving  something  of  the  fugitive 
appeal  which  Hawthorne  saw  in  the  eyes  of  Beatrice  Cenci. 

"He  offered  his  sisters  a  great  deal  of  money,"  she  sighed, 
"but  they  wouldn't  take  mi." 

"Oh  ?     So  he  had  money  ?" 

"He  was  one  of  the  first  Americans  to  make  money  in  the 
Canadian  northwest;  but  that  was  after  my  mother  died. 
She  died  in  the  snow,  on  a  journey — like  that  sketch  above 
the  fireplace.  I've  been  told  that  it  changed  my  father's 
life.  He  had  been  what  they  call  wild  before  that — but  he 
wasn't  so  any  more.  He  grew  very  hard-working  and  serious. 
He  was  one  of  the  pioneers  of  that  country — one  of  the  very 
*  45 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

first  to  sec  its  possibilities.    That  was  how  he  made  his 
money;  and  when  he  died  he  left  it  to  me.     I  believe  it's  a 

good  deal.' 

"Didn't  you  hate  being  in  the  convent?"  he  asked,  sud- 
denly.   "I  should." 

"N-no;    not  exactly.     I  wasn't  unhappy.    The  Sisters 
were  kind  to  me.     Some  of  them  spoiled  me.     It  wasn't 
until  after  my  father  died,  and  I  began  to  realize— who  I 
was,  that  I  grew  restless.     I  felt  I  should  never  be  happy 
until  I  was  among  people  of  my  own  kind." 
"And  how  did  you  get  there  ?" 
She  smiled  faintly  to  herself  before  answering. 
"I  never  did.     There  are  no  people  of  my  kind." 
Embarrassed  by  the  stress  she  seemed  inclined  to  lay  on 
this  circumstance,  he  grasped  at  the  first  thought  that  might 
divert  her  from  it. 
"So  you  live  with  a  guardian!    How  do  you  like  thatf 
"I  should  like  it  well  enough  if  he  did— that  is,  if  his  wife 
did.    You  see,"  she  tried  to  explain,  "she's  very  sweet  ana 
gentle,  and  all  that,  but  she's  devoted  to  the  proprieties  of 
life,  and  I  seem  to  represent  to  her— its  improprieties.^    I 
know  it's  a  trial  to  her  to  keep  me,  and  so,  in  a  way,  it's  a 
trial  to  me  to  stay." 

"Why  do  you  stay,  then  ?" 

"  For  one  reason,  because  I  can't  help  myself.     I  have  to 
do  what  the  law  tells  me." 
"I  see.    The  law  again!"  ^^ 

"  Yes ;  the  law  again.    But  I've  other  reasons  besides  that. 
"Such  as—?" 

"Well,  I'm  very  fond  of  their  little  girl,  for  one  thing. 
She's  the' greatest  darling  in  the  world,  and  the  only  creature, 
except  mv  dog,  that  loves  me." 
46 


THE        WILD        O   L   I  r  E 


I 


"What's  her  name  ?" 

The  question  drove  her  to  painting  with  closei  attention 
to  her  work.  Ford  followed  something  o*'  the  progress  of 
her  thought  by  watching  the  just  perceptible  contraction  of 
her  brows  into  a  little  frown,  and  the  setting  of  her  lips  into 
a  curve  of  determination.  They  were  handsome  lips,  mo- 
bile and  sensitive — lips  that  might  easily  have  been  dis- 
dainful had  not  the  inner  spirit  softened  them  with 
a  tremor  —  or  it  might  have  been  a  light  —  of  gentle 
ness. 

"It  isn't  worth  while  to  tell  you  that,"  she  said,  after  long 
reflection.  "It  will  be  safer  for  you  in  the  end  not  to  know 
any  of  our  names  at  all." 

"Still — if  I  escape — I  should  like  to  know  them." 

"If  you  escape,  you  may  be  able  to  find  out." 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  with  assumed  indifference,  "since 
you  don't  want  to  tell  me — " 

Going  on  with  her  painting,  she  allowc'  the  subject  to 
drop;  but  to  him  the  opportunity  for  conversation  was  too 
rare  a  thing  to  neglect.  Not  only  was  his  youthful  impulse 
toward  social  self-expression  normally  strong,  but  his  pleas- 
ure in  talking  to  a  lady — a  girl — was  undeniable.  Some- 
times in  his  moments  of  solitary  meditation  he  said  to  him- 
self thai  she  was  "not  his  type  of  girl";  but  the  fact  that 
he  had  been  deprived  of  feminine  society  for  nearly  three 
years  made  him  ready  to  fall  in  love  with  any  one.  If  he 
did  not  precisely  tall  in  love  with  this  girl,  it  was  only  be- 
cause the  situation  precluded  sentiment;  and  yet  it  was 
pleasant  to  sit  and  watch  her  paint,  and  even  torment  her 
with  his  questions. 

"So  the  little  girl  is  one  reason  for  your  staying  here. 
What's  another?" 

47 


mi 


THE        tr  I  L   D        OLIVE 

She  betrayed  her  own  taste  for  social  communion  bjr  the 
readiness  with  which  she  answered  him — 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  tell  you  that;  and  yet  I 
might  as  well.  It's  just  this:  they're  not  veiy  well  off— 
•o  I  can  help.     Naturally  I  like  that." 

"You  can  help  by  footing  the  bills.  That's  all  veiy  fina 
if  you  enjoy  it,  but  everybody  wouldn't." 

"They  would  if  they  were  in  my  position,"  she  insisted. 
"When  you  can  help  in  any  way  it  gives  you  a  sense  of  being 
of  use  to  some  one.  I'd  rather  that  people  needed  me,  even 
if  they  didn't  want  me,  than  that  they  shouldn't  need  me 
at  all." 

"They  need  your  money,"  he  declared,  with  a  young 
man's  outspokenness.    "That  s  what. 

"  But  that's  something,  isn't  it  ?  When  you've  no  place 
in  the  world  you're  glad  enough  to  get  one,  even  if  you  have 
to  buy  it.  My  guardian  and  his  wife  mayn't  care  much 
to  have  me,  but  it's  some  satisfaction  to  know  that  they'd 
get  along  much  worse  if  I  weren't  here." 

"So  should  I,"  he  laughed.  "What  I'm  to  do  when 
I'm  turned  adrift  without  you.  Heaven  only  knows.  It's 
curious— the  effect  imprisonment  has  on  you.  It  takes 
away  your  self-reliance.  It  gives  you  a  helpless  feeling, 
like  a  baby.  You  want  to  be  free— and  yet  you're  almost 
afraid  of  the  open  air." 

He  was  so  much  at  home  with  her  now  that,  sitting  care- 
lessly  astride  of  his  chair,  with  his  arms  folded  on  the  back, 
he  felt  a  fraternal  element  in  their  mutual  relation.  She 
bent  more  closely  over  her  work,  and  spoke  without  looking 

up-  „ 

"Oh,  you'll  get  along  all  right.    You're  that  sort. 

"That's  easy  to  say." 

48 


THE        H^  I   L   D        O   L   I   r  M 

"You  may  find  it  ea»y  to  da"  Her  next  worda,  utteiW 
wllfl*  (he  continued  to  flick  color  into  her  iketch,  cauiei 
him  to  jump  with  astonishment.    "  I'd  go  to  the  Argentina." 

"Why  not  say  the  moon  J" 

"For  one  reason,  because  the  moon  ia  inaccessible." 

"So  is  the  Argentine — for  me." 

"Oh  no,  it  isn't.    Oiher  people  hare  reached  it." 

"Yes;  but  they  weren't  in  my  fix." 

"Some  of  them  were  probably  in  worse." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  sh<  seemed  absorbed 
IB  her  work,  while  Ford  tat  meditatively  whistling  undtr 
kit  breath. 

"What  put  the  Argentine  into  your  head  ?"  he  asked,  at 
last. 

"Because  I  happen  to  know  a  good  deal  about  It.  Every- 
body says  it's  the  country  of  new  opportunities.  I  know 
people  who've  lived  there.  The  little  girl  I  was  speaking  of 
just  now — whom  I'm  so  fond  of— was  born  there.  Her 
father  is  dead  since  then,  and  her  mother  is  married  again." 

He  continued  to  meditate,  emitting  the  same  tuneless, 
abstracted  sound,  just  above  his  breath. 

"I  know  the  name  of  an  American  firm  out  there,"  she 
went  on.  "It's  Stephens  and  Jarrott.  It's  a  very  good 
firm  to  work  for.  I've  often  heard  that.  And  Mr.  Jarrot 
has  helped  ever  so  many — stranded  people." 

"I  should  be  just  his  sort,  then." 

His  laugh,  as  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  seemed  to  dismiss  an' 
impossible  subject;  and  yet  as  he  lay  on  his  couch  that 
rrening  in  the  lampless  darkness  the  name  of  Stephens  and 
Jarrott  obtruded  itself  into  his  visions  of  this  girl,  who  stood 
between  him  and  peril  because  she  "disliked  the  law."  He 
wondered  bow  far  it  was  dislike,  and  how  far  jealous  pak. 


THE        WILD        O   L   I  y  E 

In  her  eagerness  to  buy  the  domestic  place  she  had  not  m- 
berited  she  reminded  him  of  something  he  had  read— or 
fceard— of  the  wild  olive  being  grafted  into  the  olive  of  th« 
orchard.  Well,  thaf  vfould  come  in  the  natural  course  of 
events.  Some  fine  lellow,  worthy  to  be  her  mate,  would 
see  to  it.  He  was  not  without  a  pleasant  belief  that  in  hap- 
pier circumstances  he  himself  might  have  had  the  qualifi> 
cations  for  the  task.  He  wondered  again  what  her  nam* 
was.  He  ran  through  the  catalogue  of  the  names  he  him- 
self would  have  chosen  for  a- heroine — Gladys,  Ethel,  Mil- 
dred, Millicent! — none  of  them  seemed  to  suit  her.  H« 
tried  again.  Margaret,  Beatrice,  Lucy,  Joan!  Joan  po»- 
libly— or,  he  said  to  himself,  in  the  last  inconsequential 
thoughts  as  he  fell  asleep,  it  might  be— the  Wild  Olive. 


|S  the  days  passed,  one  much  like  another, 
T  and  the  retreat  seemed  more  and  more  se- 
cure, it  was  natural  that  Ford's  thoughts 
should  dwell  less  on  his  own  danger  and 
more  on  the  girl  who  filled  his  immediate 
horizon.  The  care  with  which  she  foresaw  his  wants,  the 
ingenuity  with  which  she  met  them,  the  dignity  and  sim- 
plicity with  which  she  carried  herself  through  incidents 
that  to  a  less  delicate  tact  must  have  been  difiicuk,  would 
have  excited  his  admiration  in  any  case,  even  if  the  name- 
lessness  which  helped  to  make  her  an  impersonal  element 
in  the  episode  had  not  stirred  his  imagination.  He  was 
obliged  to  remind  himself  often  that  she  was  "not  his  type 
of  girl,"  in  order  to  confine  his  heart  within  the  limits 
which  the  situation  imposed. 

It  worried  him,  therefore,  it  even  hurt  him,  that  in  spite 
of  all  the  openings  he  had  given  her,  she  had  never  offered 
him  a  sign  of  her  belief  in  his  innocence.  For  this  reason 
he  took  the  first  occasion  when  she  was  seated  at  her  easel, 
with  the  dog  lying  at  her  feet,  to  lay  hie  case  before  her. 

He  told  her  of  his  overindulged  boyhood,  as  the  only 
child  of  a  wealthy  New  York  merchant.  He  outlined  his 
profitless  years  at  the  university,  where  a  too  free  use  of 
money  had  hindered  work.  He  narrated  the  disasters  that 
had  left  him  at  the  age  of  two-and-twenty  to  begin  life  fat 
5' 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

himself— hi$  father'i  bankruptcy,  followed  by  the  deatk  of 
both  his  parents  within  the  year.  He  had  been  eager  w 
■urt  in  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  and  work  his  way  upward, 
when  the  proposal  was  made  which  proved  fatal. 

Old  Chris  Ford,  his  great-uncle,  known  throughout  tb« 
'Adirondack  region  as  "the  lumber  king,"  had  offered  to 
take  him,  train  him  to  the  lumber  business,  and  make  him 
kis  heir.  An  eccentric,  childless  widower,  commonly  b«- 
lieved  to  have  broken  his  wife's  heart  by  sheer  bittemcM 
of  tongue,  old  Chris  Ford  was  hated,  feared,  and  flattered 
by  the  relatives  and  time-servers  who  hoped  ultimately  lo 
profit  by  his  favor.  Norrie  Ford  neither  flattered  nor 
feared  his  powerful  kinsman,  but  he  hated  him  with  the 
best.  His  own  instincts  were  city  born  and  bred.  He  was 
•onscious,  too,  of  that  aptitude  with  which  the  typical  New- 
Yorker  is  supposed  to  come  into  being — the  capacity  to 
make  money.  He  would  have  preferred  to  make  it  on  hii 
own  ground  and  in  his  own  way;  and  had  it  not  been  for 
riie  counsels  of  those  who  wished  him  well,  he  would  have 
xeplied  to  his  great-uncle's  offer  with  a  courteous  "Na" 
Wiser  heads  than  his  pointed  out  the  folly  of  such  a  coutM 
■I  that;  and  so,  relucuntly,  he  entered  on  his  apprentie*- 
ihip. 

In  the  two  years  that  followed  he  could  not  see  what  piw- 
pose  he  served  other  'ban  that  of  a  mark  for  the  old  man's 
poisoned  wit.  He  >,_j  taught  nothing,  and  paid  nothing 
and  given  nothing  to  do.  He  slept  under  his  great-uncle's 
loof  and  ate  at  his  table,  but  the  sharp  tongue  made  the  bed 
hard  to  lie  on  and  the  bread  diflicult  to  swallow  down. 
Idleness  reawakened  the  propensity  to  vicious  habits  whidi 
he  thought  he  had  outlived,  while  the  rough  society  of  tho 
lumber  camps,  in  which  be  sought  to  relieve  the  tedium  of 


THE        ff^   I   L    D        0   L   I   y  E 

time,  extended  him  the  welcome  which  Falstaff  and  kis 
comrades  gave  Prince  Hal. 

The  revolt  of  his  self-respect  was  on  the  eve  of  bringing 
this  phase  of  his  existence  to  an  end  when  the  low  farct 
turned  into  tragedy.  Old  Chris  Ford  was  found  dead  in 
his  bed — shot  in  his  sleep.  On  the  premises  there  had 
been  but  three  persons,  one  of  whom  must  have  committed 
the  crime— Norrie  Ford,  and  Jacob  and  Amalia  Gramm. 
Jacob  and  Amalia  Gramm  had  been  the  old  man's  ser- 
vants for  thirty  years.  Their  faithfulness  put  them  beyond 
auspicion.  The  possibility  of  their  guilt,  having  been  con- 
sidered, was  dismissed  with  few  formalities.  The  convic- 
tion of  Norrie  Ford  became  easy  after  that  —  the  more 
respectable  people  of  the  neighborhood  being  agreed  that 
from  the  evidence  presented  no  other  deduction  could  b« 
drawn.  The  very  fact  that  the  old  man,  by  his  provoca- 
tion of  the  lad,  so  thoroughly  deserved  his  fate  made  the 
manner  in  which  he  met  with  it  the  clearer.  Even  Norrit 
Ford's  friends,  the  hunters  and  the  lumbermen,  admitted 
as  much  as  that,  though  they  were  determined  that  he 
ihould  never  suffer  for  so  meritorious  an  act  as  long  as  they 
could  give  him  a  fighting  chance  for  freedom. 

The  girl  listened  to  Ford's  narrative  with  some  degree 
of  interest,  though  it  contained  nothing  new  to  her.  She 
could  not  have  lived  at  Greenport  during  the  period  of  his 
trial  without  being  familiar  with  it  all.  But  when  he  came 
to  explanations  in  his  own  defence  she  followed  listlessly. 
Though  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  courteously 
■topped  painting,  while  he  talked  so  earnestly,  the  light  in 
her  eyes  faded  to  a  lustreless  gleam,  like  that  of  the  black 
pearl.  His  perception  that  her  thoughts  were  wandering 
gave  him  a  queer  sensation  of  speaking  into  a  medium  ia 
53 


THE       WILD        O   L   I  F  E 


ill: 


which  hii  voice  could  not  carry,  cuttin<;  ihort  hit  argu- 
ments, and  bringing  him  to  his  conclusion  more  hurriedljr 
than  he  had  intended. 

"I  wanted  you  to  know  I  didn't  do  it,"  he  finished,  in  a 
tone  which  begged  for  some  expression  of  her  belief,  "  be- 
cause you've  done  so  much  to  help  me." 

"Oh,  but  I  should  have  helped  you  just  the  same, 
whether  you  had  done  it  or  not." 

"But  I  suppose  it  makes  some  difference  to  you,"  b« 
cried,  impatiently,  "to  know  that  I  didn't." 

"I  suppose  it  would,"  she  admitted,  slowly,  "if  I  thought 
much  about  it." 

"Well,  won't  you  think?"  he  pleaded— "just  to  oblig* 
me. 

"Perhaps  I  will,  when  you're  gone;  but  at  ptvsent  I 
have  to  give  my  mind  to  getting  you  away.  It  was  to  talk 
about  that  that  I  came  this  morning." 

Had  she  wanted  to  slip  out  of  giving  an  opinion  on  the 
subject  of  his  guilt,  she  could  not  have  found  a  better  exit. 
The  means  of  his  ultimate  escape  engrossed  hitii  even  mors 
than  the  theme  of  his  innocence.  When  she  spoke  again 
all  his  faculties  were  concentrated  into  one  keen  point  of 
attention. 

"I  think  the  time  has  come  for  you  to— go." 

If  her  voice  trembled  on  the  last  word,  he  did  not  notict 
it.  The  pose  of  his  body,  the  lines  of  hi?  face,  the  glint  of 
his  gray  eyes,  were  alive  with  interrogation.  / 

"Go  f"  he  asked,  just  audibly.     "When  f" 

"To-morrow." 

"How?" 

"I'll  tell  you  that  then." 

"Why  can't  you  tell  me  now?" 
54 


THE        fr  I  L   D        OLIVE 

"I  could  if  I  wai  sure  you  wouldn't  niie  objectioni, 
but  I  know  you  will." 
"Then  there  are  objections  to  be  raised }" 
"There  are  objections  to  everything.     There's  no  plan 
of  escape  that  won't  expose  you  to  a  good  many  risks.     I'd 
rather  you  didn't  see  them  in  advance." 
"  But  isn't  it  well  to  be  prepared  beforehand  ?" 
"You'll  have  plenty  of  time  for  preparation— after  you've 
started.     If  that  seems  mysterious  to  you  now,  you'll  know 
what  I  mean  by  it  when  I  come  to-morrow.     I  shall  be  here 
in  the  afternoon  at  six." 

With  this  information  Ford  was  obliged  to  be  content, 
•pending  a  sleepless  night  and  an  impatient  day,  waiting 
for  the  time  appointed. 

She  came  punctually.  For  the  first  time  she  was  not 
followed  by  her  dog.  The  only  change  in  her  appearance 
he  could  see  was  a  short  skirt  of  rough  material  instead  of 
her  usual  linen  or  muslin. 
"Are  we  going  through  the  woods  ?"  he  asked. 
"Not  far.  I  shall  take  you  by  the  trail  that  led  to  this 
•pot  before  I  built  the  cabin  and  made  the  path."  As  she 
•poke  she  surveyed  him.  "You'll  do,"  she  smiled  at  last. 
'In  those  flannels,  and  with  your  beard,  no  one  would  know 
you  for  the  Norrie  Ford  of  three  weeks  ago." 

It  was  easy  for  him  to  ascribe  the  glow  in  her  eyes  and 
the  quiver  in  her  voice  to  the  excitement  of  the  moment; 
for  he  could  see  that  she  had  the  spirit  of  adventure.  Per- 
haps it  was  to  conceal  some  embarrassment  under  his  re- 
gard that  she  spoke  again,  hurriedly. 

"We've  no  time  to  lose.  You  needn't  take  anything 
from  here.     We'd  better  start." 

He  followed  her  over  the  threshold,  and  as  she  turned 
55 


1-1' 


THE        WILD        O   L  I  V  B 

to  lock  the  cabin  he  had  time  to  throw  a  glance  of  farewell 
over  the  familiar  hills,  now  transmuted  into  a  haze  of 
amethyst  under  the  westering  sun.  A  second  later  he  heard 
her  quick  "Come  on!"  as  she  struck  into  the  barely  per- 
ceptible path  that  led  upward,  around  the  shoulder  of  the 
mountain. 

It  was  a  stiff  bit  of  climbing,  but  she  sped  along  with  the 
dryad-like  ease  she  had  displayed  on  the  night  when  she 
ltd  him  to  the  cabin.  Beneath  the  primeval  growth  of  ash 
and  pine  there  was  an  underbrush  so  dense  that  no  one  but 
a  creature  gifted  with  the  inherited  instinct  of  the  woods 
could  have  found  the  invisible,  sinuous  line  alone  possible 
to  the  feet.  But  it  was  there,  and  she  traced  it — never  paut> 
ing,  never  speaking,  and  only  looking  back  from  time  to 
time  to  assure  herself  that  he  was  in  sight,  until  they  reached 
the  top  of  the  dome-shaped  hill. 

They  came  out  suddenly  on  a  rocky  terrace,  beneath 
which,  a  mile  below,  Champlain  was  spread  out  in  great 
part  of  its  length,  from  the  dim  bluff  of  Crown  Point  to  the 
far-away,  cloud-like  mountains  of  Canada. 

"You  can  sit  down  a  minute  here,"  she  said,  ai  he 
came  up. 

They  found  seats  among  the  low  scattered  bowlders,  but 
neither  spoke.  It  was  a  moment  at  which  to  understand 
the  jewelled  imagery  of  the  Seer  of  the  Apocalypse.  Jasper, 
jacinth,  chalcedony,  emerald,  chrysoprasus,  were  suggested 
by  the  still  bosom  of  the  lake,  towered  round  by  light- 
reflecting  mountains.  The  triple  tier  of  the  Vermont  shore 
was  bottle-green  at  its  base,  indigo  in  the  middle  height, 
while  its  summit  was  a  pale  undulation  of  evanescent  blue 
against  the  jade  and  topaz  of  the  twilight. 

"The  steamer  Emprtss  of  Erin,"  the  girl  said,  with  wbet 
S6 


THE        IV  I  L  D 


OLIVE 


Mcmed  like  abruptness,  "will  sail  from  Montreal  on  t^  f 
(wenty-eighth,  and  from  Quebec  on  the  twenty-ninth.  From 
Rimouski,  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  St.  Lawrence,  she  will 
nil  on  the  thirtieth,  to  touch  nowhere  else  till  she  reachei 
Ireland.    You  will  take  her  at  Rimouski." 

There  was  a  silence,  during  which  he  tried  to  absorb  thii 
startling  information. 

"And  from  here  to  Rimouski?"  he  asked,  at  last. 

"From  here  to  Rimouski,"  she  replied,  with  a  gesture 
toward  the  lake,  "your  way  is  there." 

There  was  another  silence,  while  his  eyes  travelled  the 
long,  rainbow -Ljlored  lake,  up  to  the  faint  line  of  moun- 
tains, where  it  faded  into  a  mist  of  bluish-green  and  gold. 

"I  see  the  way,"  he  said  then,  "but  I  don't  see  the 
means  of  taking  it." 

"You'll  find  that  in  good  time.  In  the  mean  while  you'd 
better  take  this."  From  her  jacket  she  drew  a  paper, 
which  she  passed  to  him.  "That's  your  ticket.  You'll 
lee,"  she  laughed,  apologetically,  "that  I've  taken  for  you 
what  they  call  a  suite,  and  I've  done  it  for  this  reason. 
They're  keeping  a  lookout  for  you  on  every  tramp  ship  from 
New  York,  on  every  cattle-ship  from  Boston,  and  on  every 
pain-ship  from  Montreal-  but  they're  not  looking  for  you 
in  the  most  expensive  cabins  of  the  most  expensive  liners. 
They  know  you've  no  money;  and  if  you  get  out  of  the 
oountry  at  all,  they  expect  it  will  be  as  a  stoker  or  a  stow- 
iway.  They'll  never  think  you're  driving  in  cabs  and 
staying  at  the  best  hotels." 

"But  I  sha'n't  be,"  he  said,  simply. 

"Oh  yes,  you  will.  You'll  need  money,  of  course;  and 
Fve  brought  it.  You'll  need  a  good  deal;  so  I've  brought 
plcn^." 


THE        WILD        O   L   I   r  E 


i! 


iV'hi 


ili  !■ 


She  drew  out  a  pocketbook  and  held  it  toward  him.  Hi 
looked  at  it,  reddening,  but  made  no  attempt  to  take  it. 

"I  can't — I  can't — go  u  far  as  that,"  he  stammered, 
hoarsely. 

"You  mean,"  she  returned,  quickly,  "that  you  hesitate 
to  take  money  from  a  woman.  I  thought  you  might 
But  it  isn't  from  a  woman;  it's  from  a  man.  It's  from  mjr 
father.  He  would  have  liked  to  do  it.  He  would  have 
wanted  me  to  do  it.  They  keep  putting  it  in  the  bank  for 
me — ^just  to  spend — but  I  never  need  it.  What  can  I  do 
with  money  in  a  place  like  Greenport  ?  Here,  take  it," 
she  urged,  thrusting  it  into  his  hands.  "You  know  veiy 
well  it  isn't  a  matter  of  choice,  but  of  life  or  death." 

With  her  own  fingers  she  clasped  his  upon  it,  drawing 
back  and  coloring  at  her  boldness.  For  the  first  time  in 
their  weeks  of  intercourse  she  saw  in  him  a  touch  of  emo- 
tion. The  phlegmatism  by  which  he  had  hitherto  con- 
cealed his  inward  suffering  seemed  suddenly  to  desert  him. 
He  looked  at  her  with  lips  quivering,  while  his  eyes  filled. 
His  weakness  only  nerved  her  to  be  stronger,  sending  her 
for  refuge  back  into  the  commonplace. 

"They'll  expect  you  at  Rimouski,  because  your  luggage 
will  already  have  gone  on  board  at  Montreal.  Yes,"  she 
continued,  in  reply  to  his  astonishment,  "I've  forwarded 
all  the  trunks  and  boxes  that  came  to  me  from  my  father. 
I  told  my  guardian  I  was  sending  them  to  be  stored — and 
I  am,  for  you'll  store  them  for  me  in  London  when  you've 
done  with  them.     Here  are  the  keys." 

He  made  no  attempt  to  refuse  them,  and  she  hurried  on. 

"I  sent  the  trunks  for  two  reasons;  first,  because  there 
might  be  things  in  them  you  could  use  till  you  get  some* 
thing  better;  and  then  I  wanted  to  prevent  suspicion  itM> 
58 


THE        WILD        O   L   I  V  B 

ing  from  your  sailing  without  luggage.  Every  little  thing 
of  that  sort  counts.  The  trunks  have  'H.  S.'  painted  in 
white  letters  on  them;  so  that  you'll  have  no  difEculty  in 
knowing  them  at  sight.  I've  put  a  name  with  the  same 
initials  on  the  ticket.  You'd  better  use  it  till  you  feel  it 
safe  to  take  your  own  again." 

"What  name  ?"  he  asked,  with  eager  curiosity,  beginning 
to  take  the  ticket  out  of  its  envelope. 

"Never  mind  now,"  she  said,  quickly.  "It's  just  a 
name— any  name.  You  can  look  at  it  afterward.  We'd 
better  go  on." 

She  made  as  though  she  would  move,  but  he  detained 
her. 

"Wait  a  minute.     So  your  name  begins  with  SI" 

"Like  a  good  many  others,"  she  smiled. 

"  fhen  tell  me  what  it  is.  Don't  let  me  go  away  without 
knowing  it.     You  ian't  think  what  it  means  to  me." 

"I  should  think  you'd  see  what  it  means  to  me." 

"I  don't.     What  harm  can  it  do  you  ?" 

"If  you  don't  see,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  explain.  To  be 
nameless  is— how  shall  I  say  it?— a  sort  of  protection  to 
me.  In  helping  you,  and  taking  care  of  you,  I've  do..e 
what  almost  any  really  nice  girl  would  have  shrunk  from. 
There  are  plenty  of  people  who  would  say  is  was  wrong. 
And  in  a  way— a  way  I  could  never  make  you  understand, 
unless  you  understand  already— it's  a  relief  to  me  that 
you  don't  know  who  I  am.    And  even  that  isn't  everything." 

"Well— what  else?" 

"When  this  little  episode  is  over" — her  voice  trembled, 

«nd  it  was  not  without  some  blinking  of  the  eyes  that  she 

W»t  able  to  begin  again— "when  this  little  episode  is  over. 

It  will  be  better  for  us  both — for  you  as  well  as  for  me— to 

59 


dkiiiiriU 


(.!''' 


THE        W^  I  L   D        O   L   I   y  K 

know  as  little  about  it  ai  possible.  The  danger  isn't  pMt 
bj  any  means;  but  it's  a  kind  of  danger  in  which  ignorance 
can  be  made  to  look  a  good  deal  like  innocence.  I  sha'n't 
know  anything  about  you  after  you've  gone,  and  you  know 
nothing  whatever  about  me." 

"That's  what  I  complain  of.  Suppose  I  pull  the  thing 
off,  and  make  a  success  of  myself  somewhere  else,  how 
should  I  communicate  with  you  again  ?" 

"Why  should  you  communicate  with  me  at  all  ?" 

"To  pay  you  back  your  money,  for  one  thing — " 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  matter." 

"  Perhaps  it  doesn't  from  your  point  of  view ;  but  it  dow 
from  mine.  But  it  wouldn't  be  my  only  reason  in  any 
case." 

Something  in  his  voice  and  in  his  eyes  warned  her  to  ri*e 
and  interrupt  him. 

"I'm  afraid  we  haven't  time  to  talk  about  it  now,"  the 
said,  hurriedly.    "We  really  must  be  going  on." 

"I'm  not  going  to  talk  about  it  now,"  he  declared,  rising 
in  his  turn.  "I  said  it  would  be  a  reason  for  my  wanting 
to  communicate  with  you  again.  I  shall  want  to  tell  yon 
something  then;  though  perhaps  by  that  time  you  won't 
want  to  hear  it." 

"Hadn't  we  better  wait  and  see  ?" 

"That's  what  I  shall  have  to  do;  but  how  can  I  comt 
back  to  you  at  all  if  I  don't  know  who  you  are  ?" 

"I  shall  have  to  leave  that  to  your  ingenuity,"  she  laughed, 
with  an  attempt  to  treat  the  matter  lightly.  "In  the  mcaa 
time  we  must  hurry  on.  It's  absolutely  necessary  tLat  yoa 
■hould  set  out  by  sunset." 

She  glided  into  the  invisible  trail  running  down  the  laka- 
■da  slope  of  the  mountain,  so  that  he  wai  obliged  to  faUew 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

fcer.  As  they  had  climbed  up,  so  they  descended — the  girl 
steadily  and  silently  in  advance.  The  region  was  dotted 
with  farms;  but  she  kept  to  the  shelter  of  the  woodland,  and 
before  he  expected  it  they  found  themselves  at  the  water's 
edge.  A  canoe  drawn  up  in  a  cove  gave  him  the  first  clear 
hint  of  her  intentions. 

It  was  a  pretty  little  cove,  enclosed  by  two  tiny  headlands, 
forming  a  miniature  landlocked  bay,  hidden  from  view  of 
the  lake  beyond.  Trees  leaned  over  it  and  into  it,  while 
the  canoe  rested  on  a  yard-long  beach  of  sand. 

"I  see,"  he  remarked,  after  she  had  allowed  him  to  take 
his  own  observations.  "You  want  me  to  go  over  to  Bur- 
lington and  catch  a  train  to  Montreal." 

She  shook  her  head,  smiling,  as  he  thought,  rather 
tremulously. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  planned  a  much  longer  journey  for  you. 
Come  and  see  the  preparations  I've  made."  They  stepped 
to  the  side  of  the  canoe,  so  as  to  look  down  into  it.  "That," 
she  pursued,  pointing  to  a  small  suit-case  forward  of  the 
middle  thwart,  "will  enable  you  to  'ook  like  an  ordinary 
traveller  after  you've  landed.  And  that,"  she  added,  in- 
dicating a  package  in  the  stern,  "contains  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  sandwiches.  Those  are  bottles  of  mineral  water. 
The  small  objects  are  a  corkscrew,  a  glass,  a  railway  time- 
table, a  cheap  compass,  and  a  cheaper  watch.  In  addition 
you'll  f  nd  a  map  of  the  lake,  which  you  can  consult  to- 
morrow morning,  after  you've  paddled  all  night  through  the 
part  with  which  you're  most  familiar." 

"Where  am  I  going?"  he  asked,  huskily,  avoiding  her 
eyes.  The  nonchalance  of  her  tone  had  not  deceived  him, 
«nd  he  thought  it  well  not  to  let  their  glances  meet. 

"You'll  keep  to  the  middle  of  the  lake  and  go  on  steadily. 
s  6i 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


I  I 


You'll  have  all  Champlain  to  yourself  to-night,  and  in  day- 
light there's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  pass  for  an  ordi- 
nary sportsman.  All  the  same,  you  had  better  rest  by  day, 
and  go  on  again  in  the  evening.  You'll  find  lots  of  little 
secluded  coves  vehere  you  can  pull  up  the  canoe  and  be 
quite  undisturbed.  I'd  do  that,  if  I  were  you." 
He  nodded  to  show  that  he  understood  her. 
"When  you  look  at  the  map,"  she  went  on,  "you'll  find 
that  I've  traced  a  route  for  you,  a-ler  you  get  above  Platts- 
ville.  You'll  see  that  it  will  take  you  past  the  little  French- 
Canadian  village  of  Deux  Etoiles.  You  can't  mistake  it, 
because  there's  a  lighthouse,  with  a  revolving  light,  on  a 
rock,  just  off  the  shore.  You'll  be  in  Canada  then.  You'd 
better  time  yourself  to  go  by  about  nightfall." 

He  nodded  his  agreement  with  her  again,  and  the 
continued. 

"About  a  mile  above  the  lighthouse,  and  close  in  by  the 
eastern  shore,  just  where  the  lake  becomes  very  narrow, 
there  are  two  little  islands  lying  close  together.  You'll  take 
them  as  a  landmark,  because  immediately  opposite  them,  on 
the  mainland,  there's  a  stretch  of  forest  running  for  a  good 
many  miles.  There  you  can  land  finally.  You  must  drag 
the  canoe  right  up  into  the  wood,  and  hide  it  as  well  as 
you  can.  It's  my  own  canoe,  so  that  it  can  lie  there  till  it 
drops  to  pieces.     Is  all  that  quite  clear  to  you  ?" 

Once  more  he  nodded,  not  trusting  himself  to  speak. 
Again  the  sight  of  his  emotion  braced  her  to  make  her  tone 
more  matter-of-fact  than  ever. 

"Now,  then,"  she  went  on,  "if  you  consult  the  map 

you  11  see  that  an  old  wood-road  runs  through  the  forest, 

and  comes  out  at  the  station  of  Saint  Jean  du  Clou  Noir. 

There  you  can  get  a  train  to  Quebec.  .  .  .  The  road  begins 

62 


THE        JV  I  L   D        OLIVE 

nearly  opposite  the  two  little  islands  I  spoke  of.  ...  I  don't 
think  you'll  have  any  difficulty  in  finding  it.  .  .  .  It's  about 
seven  miles  to  the  station.  .  .  .  You  could  walk  that  easily 
enough  through  the  night.  .  .  .  I've  marked  a  very  good 
train  on  the  time-table — a  train  that  stops  at  Saint  Jean  du 
Clou  Noir  at  seven  thirty-five  .  .  ." 

A  choking  sensation  warned  her  to  stop,  but  she  retained 
the  power  to  smile.  The  sun  had  set,  and  the  slow  northern 
night  was  beginning  to  close  in.  Across  the  lake  the  moun- 
tains of  Vermont  were  receding  into  deep  purple  uniformity, 
while  over  the  crimson  of  the  west  a  veil  of  filmy  black  was 
falling,  as  though  dropped  in  mid-flight  by  the  angel  of  the 
dark.  Here  and  there  through  the  dead-turquoise  green  of 
the  sky  one  could  detect  the  pale  glimmer  of  a  star. 

"You  must  go  now,"  she  whispered.  He  began  to  move 
the  canoe  into  the  water. 

"I  haven't  thanked  you,"  he  began,  unsteadily,  holding 
the  canoe  by  the  bow,  "because  you  wouldn't  let  me.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it — adequately. 
But  if  I  live  at  all,  my  life  will  belong  to  you.  That's  all  I 
can  say.  My  life  will  be  a  thing  for  you  to  dispose  of  If 
you  ever  have  need  of  it — " 

"I  sha'n't  have,"  she  said,  hastily,  "but  I'll  remember 
what  you  say." 

"Thanks;  that's  all  I  ask.  For  the  present  I  can  only 
hope  for  the  chance  of  making  my  promise  good." 

She  said  nothing  in  reply,  and  after  a  minute's  silence  he 
entered  the  canoe.  She  steadied  it  herself  to  allow  him  to 
step  in.  It  was  not  till  he  had  done  so  and  had  knelt  down 
with  the  paddle  in  his  hand  that,  moved  by  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, she  leaned  to  him  and  kissed  him.  Then,  releasing 
the  light  craft,  she  allowed  it  to  glide  out  like  a  swan  on  the 
63 


il 


THE       WILD        OLIVE 

tinj  bay.  In  three  itrokei  of  the  paddle  it  had  patted 
between  the  low,  enclosing  headlandt  and  wat  out  of  lighb 
When  the  summoned  up  strength  to  creep  to  an  eminence 
commanding  the  lake,  it  was  already  little  more  than  a 
speck,  moving  rapidly  northward,  over  the  opal-tinted 
water*. 


VI 


IN  finding  himself  alone,  and  relatively  free, 
1  Ford's  first  sensation  was  one  of  insecurity. 
Having  lived  for  more  than  a  year  under 
orders  and  observation,  he  had  lost  for  the 
I  moment  some  of  his  natural  confidence  in 
his  own  initiative.  Though  he  struck  resolutely  up  the 
lake  he  was  aware  of  an  inner  bewilderment,  bordering  on 
physical  discomfort,  at  being  his  own  master.  For  the  first 
half-hour  he  paddled  mechanically,  his  consciousness  be- 
numbed by  the  overwhelming  strangeness.  As  far  as  he 
was  able  to  formulate  his  thought  at  all  he  felt  himself  to  be 
in  process  of  a  new  birth,  into  a  new  phase  of  existence.  In 
the  darkening  of  the  sky  above  him  and  of  the  lake  around 
there  came  upon  him  something  of  the  mental  obscurity 
that  might  mark  the  passage  of  a  transmigrating  soul.  After 
the  subdued  excitement  of  the  past  weeks,  and  especially 
of  the  past  hour,  the  very  regularity  of  his  movements  now 
lulled  him  into  a  passivity  only  quickened  by  vague  fears. 
The  noiseless  leaping  forward  of  the  canoe  beneath  him 
heightened  his  sense  of  breaking  with  the  past  and  hastening 
onward  into  another  life.  In  that  life  he  would  be  a  new 
creature,  free  to  be  a  law  unto  himself 

A  new  creature  I    A  law  unto  himself!    The  ideas  were  •• 
lubconscious,  and  yet  he  found  the  words  framing  them- 
lelves  on  his  lips.     He  repeated  them  mentally  with  some 
65 


THE       fr  I  L  D        OLIVE 


;!  ^i 


Mtiifaction  as  a  cluster  of  lights  on  his  left  told  him  he  wai 
passing  Greenport.  Other  lights,  on  a  hill,  above  the  town 
and  away  from  it,  were  probably  those  of  Judge  Wayne's 
villa.  He  looked  at  them  curiously,  with  an  odd  sense  of 
detachment,  of  remoteness,  as  from  things  belonging  to  a 
time  with  which  he  had  nothing  more  to  do.  That  wai 
over  and  done  with. 

It  was  not  until  a  steamer  crossed  his  bows,  not  more 
than  a  hundred  yards  in  front  of  him,  that  he  began  to 
appreciate  his  safety.  Under  the  protection  of  the  dark, 
and  in  the  wide  loneliness  of  the  waters,  he  was  as  lost  to 
human  sight  as  a  bird  in  the  upper  air.  The  steamer — 
zigzagging  down  the  lake,  touching  at  little  poits  now  on 
the  west  bank  and  now  on  the  east — had  shot  out  unexpect- 
edly from  behind  a  point,  her  double  row  of  lights  casting 
a  halo  in  which  his  canoe  must  have  been  visible  on  the 
waves;  and  yet  she  had  passed  by  and  taken  no  note  of  him. 
For  a  second  such  good-fortune  had  seemed  to  his  nervous 
imagination  beyond  the  range  of  hope.  He  stopped  pad- 
dling, he  almost  stopped  breathing,  allowing  the  canoe  to 
rock  gently  on  the  tide.  The  steamer  puffed  and  pulsated, 
beating  her  way  directly  athwart  his  course.  The  throbbing 
of  her  engines  seemed  scarcely  louder  than  that  of  his  own 
heart.  He  could  see  people  moving  on  the  deck,  who  in 
their  turn  must  have  been  able  to  see  him.  And  yet  the 
boat  went  on,  ignoring  him,  in  tacit  acknowledgment  of  his 
right  to  the  lake,  of  his  right  to  the  world. 

His  sigh  of  relief  became  almost  a  laugh  as  he  began 
again  to  paddle  forward.  The  incident  was  like  a  first 
victory,  an  assurance  of  victories  to  come.  The  sense  of 
msecunty  with  which  he  had  started  out  gave  place,  minute 
by  minute,  to  the  confidence  in  himself  which  was  part  of 
66 


r  H  E        WILD        OLIVE 

hU  normal  Mate  of  mind.  Other  imall  happening!  con- 
firmed  hit  lelf-reliance.  Once  a  pleasure  pa(ty  in  a  rowboat 
paned  to  near  him  that  he  could  hear  the  splash  of  their 
oars  and  the  sound  of  their  voices.  There  was  something 
almost  miraculous  to  him  in  being  so  close  to  the  common- 
place of  human  fellowship.  He  had  the  feeling  of  pleasant 
inward  recognition  that  comes  from  hearing  one's  mother- 
tongue  in  a  foreign  land.  He  stopped  paddling  again,  just 
to  catch  meaningless  fragments  of  their  talk,  until  they 
floated  away  into  silence  and  darkness.  He  would  have 
been  sorry  to  have  them  pass  out  of  ear-shot,  were  it  not 
for  his  satisfaction  in  being  able  to  go  his  way  unheeded. 

On  another  occasion  he  found  himself  within  speaking 
distance  of  one  of  the  numerous  small  lakeside  hotels. 
Lights  flared  from  open  doors  and  windows,  while  from  the 
veranda,  the  garden,  and  the  little  pier  came  peals  of 
laughter,  or  screams  and  shouts  of  young  people  at  rough 
play.  Now  and  then  he  could  catch  the  tones  uf  some 
youth's  teasing,  and  the  shrill,  pretended  irritation  of  a 
girl's  retort.  The  noisy  cheerfulness  of  it  all  reached  his 
ears  with  the  reminiscent  tenderness  of  music  heard  in 
childhood.  It  represented  the  kind  of  life  he  himself  had 
loved.  Before  the  waUng  nightmare  of  his  troubles  began 
he  had  been  of  the  unexacting  type  of  American  lad  who 
counts  it  a  "good  time"  to  sit  in  summer  evenings  on 
"porches"  or  "stoops"  or  "piazzas,"  joking  with  "the 
boys,"  flirting  with  "the  giris,"  and  chattering  on  all  sub- 
jects from  the  silly  to  the  serious,  from  the  local  to  the 
sublime.  He  was  of  the  friendly,  neighborly,  noisy,  demon- 
strative spirit  characteristic  of  his  age  and  class.  He  could 
have  entered  into  this  circle  of  strangers — strangers  for  the 
most  part,  in  all  probabiliiy,  to  one  another — and  in  tea 
67 


THE        H^  I  L   D        OLIVE 

■uautet'  time  been  one  of  them.  Their  icreami,  their 
twang,  their  ilang,  their  gofsip,  their  jolly  banter,  and  their 
gay  ineptitude  would  have  been  to  him  like  a  welcome 
home.  But  he  was  Norrie  Ford,  known  by  name  and  mia- 
feitune  to  every  one  of  them.  The  boys  and  girls  on  the 
pier,  the  elderly  women  in  the  rocking-chairs,  even  the 
waitresses  who,  in  high-heeled  shoes  and  elaborate  coiffures, 
ministered  disdainfully  to  the  guests  in  the  bare-floored 
dining-room,  had  discussed  his  life,  his  trial,  his  sentence, 
his  escape,  and  formed  their  opinions  upon  him.  Were  it 
possible  for  them  to  know  now  that  he  was  lurking  out  there 
in  the  dark,  watching  their  silhouettes  and  listening  to  their 
voices,  there  would  be  such  a  hue  and  cry  as  the  lake  had 
not  heard  since  the  Indiana  sighted  Champlain  on  its 
banks. 

It  was  this  reflection  that  first  of  all  stirred  the  current 
of  his  deep,  slow  resentment.  During  the  fifteen  months 
since  his  arrest  he  had  been  either  too  busy,  or  too  anxious, 
or  too  sorely  puzzled  at  finding  himself  in  so  odd  a  position, 
to  have  leisure  for  positive  anger.  At  the  worst  of  times  he 
had  never  lost  the  belief  that  the  world,  or  that  portion  of 
the  world  which  concerned  itself  with  him,  would  come  to 
recognize  the  fact  that  it  was  making  a  mistake.  He  had 
taken  his  imprisonment  and  his  trial  more  or  less  as  excit- 
ing adventures.  Even  the  words  of  his  sentence  lost  most 
of  their  awfulness  in  his  inner  conviction  that  they  were 
empty  sounds.  Of  the  confused  happenings  on  the  night 
of  his  escape  his  clearest  memory  was  that  he  had  been 
hungry,  while  he  thought  of  the  weeks  spent  in  the  cabin 
as  a  "picnic."  Just  as  good  spirits  had  seldom  failed  him, 
•o  patience  had  rarely  deserted  him.  Such  ups  and  downs 
•f  (Biotion  as  he  had  experienced  resulted  in  the  long  run 
68 


THE        fV  I  L   D        O   L   I  y  E 

in  an  increaie  of  optimum.  In  the  back  of  hii  liow  mind 
Im  kept  the  expectation,  almost  the  intention,  of  giving  hii 
anger  play — iome  time;  but  only  when  hii  righti  should 
have  been  restored  to  him. 

But  he  felt  it  coming  on  him  now,  befr-  n.  was  prepared 
for  it.  It  was  taking  him  unawares,  aril  w  'OK*  di>  i-a'.iw, 
icused  by  the  chance  perception  that  i  .  .  cmt  :  It  '.^  n 
rightful,  natural  companionship.  '  ./K.  -.g  ii  ytx  W.  ( 
brought  home  to  him  the  meaning  oi' ;..!  situatir  .  I.ke  the 
talk  and  laughter  of  these  lads  Mid  gii's,  lilio  su  *ueriijr 
became  to  him  what  Lazarus  in  A-  i;iha''.''s  hoiom  was  to 
Dives  in  his  torment. 

A  few  dips  of  the  paddle  took  him  out  of' -he  i.-.s  u  und 
of  the  hotel;  but  the  dull,  indignant  yii:<  tsmamed  in 
his  heart,  finding  outward  vent  in  the  violence  with  which 
he  sent  the  canoe  bounding  northward  beneath  the  star- 
light. For  the  moment  it  was  a  blind,  objectless  passion, 
directed  against  nothing  and  no  one  in  particular.  He  was 
not  skilled  in  the  analysis  of  feeling,  or  in  tracing  effect  to 
cause.  For  an  hour  or  two  his  wrath  was  the  rage  of  the 
infuriated  animal  roaring  out  its  pain,  regardless  of  the  hand 
that  has  inflicted  it.  Other  rowing-parties  came  within 
hearing  distance,  but  he  paid  them  no  attention;  lake 
steamers  hove  in  sight,  but  he  had  learned  how  to  avoid 
them;  little  towns,  dotted  at  intervals  of  a  few  miles  apart, 
lit  up  the  banks  with  the  lights  of  homes,  but  their  shining 
domesticity  see.ned  to  mock  him.  The  birth  of  a  new  creat- 
ure was  a  painful  process;  and  yet,  through  all  his  con- 
fused sensations  and  obscure  elemental  suffering,  he  kept 
the  conviction  that  a  new  creature  was  somehow  claiming 
its  right  to  live. 

Peace  of  mind  came  to  him  gradually,  as  the  little  towai 
69 


THE        fr  I  L   D        OLIVE 


1  I' 


•I 


!•      :! 


put  out  their  lights,  and  the  lake  steamers  laid  up  in  tiny 
ports,  and  the  rowing-parties  went  home  to  bed.  In  the 
smooth,  dark  level  of  the  lake  and  in  the  stars  there  was  a 
soothing  quality  to  which  he  responded  before  he  was  aware 
of  doing  so.  The  spacious  solitude  of  the  summer  night 
brought  with  it  a  large  calmness  of  outlook,  in  which  his 
spirit  took  a  measure  of  comfort.  There  was  a  certain 
bodily  pleasure,  too,  in  the  regular  monotony  of  paddling, 
while  his  mental  faculties  were  kept  alert  by  the  necessity 
of  finding  points  by  which  to  steer,  and  fixing  his  attention 
upon  them.  So,  by  degrees,  his  limited  reasoning  powers 
found  themselves  at  work,  fumbling,  with  the  helplrssness 
of  a  man  whose  strong  points  are  physical  activity  and  con- 
centration of  purpose,  for  some  light  on  the  wild  course  on 
which  he  was  embarked. 

Perhaps  his  first  reflection  that  had  the  nature  of  a  con- 
clusion or  a  deduction  was  on  the  subject  of  ''old  Wayne." 
Up  to  the  present  he  had  regarded  him  with  special  ill  will, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  Wayne,  while  inclining  to  a  belief 
of  his  innocence,  had  nevertheless  lent  himself  to  the  full 
working  of  the  law.  It  came  to  Ford  now  in  the  light  of  a 
discovery  that,  after  all,  it  was  not  Wayne's  fault.  Wayne 
was  in  the  grip  of  forces  that  deprived  him  to  a  large  ex- 
tent of  the  power  of  voluntary  action.  He  could  scarcely 
be  blamed  if  he  fulfilled  the  duties  he  was  appointed  to  per- 
form. The  real  responsibility  was  elsewhere.  With  whom 
did  it  lie  ?  For  a  primitive  mind  like  Ford's  the  question 
was  not  an  easy  one  to  answer. 

For  a  time  he  was  inclined  to  call  to  account  the  lawyers 
who  had  pleaded  for  the  State.  Had  it  not  been  for  their 
arguments  he  would  have  been  acquitted.  With  an  in- 
genuity he  had  never  supposed  to  exist  they  had  anp.Iyzed 
70 


THE        WILD 


O  L   I  r  E 


his  career — especially  the  two  years  of  it  spent  with  Uncle 
Chris  —  and  showed  how  it  led  up  to  the  crime  as  to  an 
inevitable  consequence.  They  seemed  familiar  with  every- 
thing he  had  ever  done,  while  they  were  able  to  prove  be- 
yond cavil  that  certain  of  his  acts  were  inspired  by  sinister 
motives  which  he  himself  knew  to  have  sprung  from  dis- 
sipation at  the  worst.  It  was  astonishing  how  plausible 
their  stor)'  was;  and  he  admitted  that  if  anybody  else  had 
been  accused,  he  himself  would  probably  have  been  con- 
vinced by  it.  Certainly,  then,  the  lawyers  must  have  been 
to  blame — that  is,  unless  they  were  only  carrying  out  what 
others  had  hired  them  to  do. 

That  qualifying  phrase  started  a  new  train  of  thought. 
Mechanically,  dip  by  dip,  swaying  gently  with  each  stroke 
as  to  a  kind  of  rhythm,  he  drove  the  canoe  onward,  while  he 
pondered  it.  It  was  easy  to  meditate  out  here,  on  the  wide, 
empty  lake,  for  no  sound  broke  the  midnight  stillness  but 
the  soft  swish  of  he  paddle  and  the  skimming  of  the  broad 
keel  along  the  water.  It  was  not  by  any  orderly  system  of 
analysis,  or  synthesis,  or  syllogism,  that  Ford,  as  the  hours 
went  by,  came  at  last  to  his  final  conclusion;  and  yet  he 
reached  it  with  conviction.  By  a  process  of  elimination 
he  absolved  judge,  jury,  legal  profession,  and  local  public 
from  the  greater  condemnation.  Each  had  contributed  to 
the  error  that  made  him  an  outlaw,  but  no  one  contrib- 
utor was  the  whole  of  the  great  force  responsible.  That 
force,  which  had  set  its  component  parts  to  work,  and  plied 
them  till  the  worst  they  could  do  was  done,  was  the  body 
which  they  called  Organized  Society.  To  Ford,  Organized 
Society  was  a  new  expression.  He  could  not  remember 
ever  to  have  heard  it  till  it  was  used  in  court.  There  it  had 
been  on  everybody's  lips.  Far  more  than  old  Chrir  '^ord 
7« 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

hinudf  it  yns  made  to  figure  as  the  injured  party.  Though 
there  was  little  sympathy  for  the  victim  in  his  own  person, 
Organized  Society  seemed  to  have  received  in  his  death 
a  blow  that  called  for  the  utmost  avenging.  Organized 
Society  was  plaintiff  in  the  case,  as  well  as  police,  jury, 
judge,  and  public.  The  single  human  creature  who  could 
not  apparently  gain  footing  within  its  fold  was  Norrie  Ford 
himself.     Organized  Society  had  cast  him  out. 

He  had  been  told  that  before,  and  yet  the  acutal  fact  had 
never  come  home  to  him  till  now.  In  prison,  in  court,  in 
the  cabin  in  the  woods,  there  had  always  been  some  human 
hand  within  reach  of  his  own,  some  human  tie,  even  though 
it  was  a  chain.  However  ignoble,  there  had  been  a  place 
for  him.  But  out  here  on  the  great  vacant  lake  there  was 
an  isolation  that  gave  reality  to  his  expulsion.  The  last 
man  left  on  earth  would  not  feel  more  utterly  alone. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  night  of  his  escape  there  came 
back  to  him  that  vague  feeling  of  deserting  something  he 
might  have  defended,  that  almost  physical  sensation  of 
rr)^et  at  not  having  stood  his  ground  and  fought  till  he  fell. 
He  began  to  understand  :.ow  what  it  meant.  Dip,  splash, 
dip,  splash,  his  paddle  stirred  the  dimly  shining  water, 
breaking  into  tiny  whirlpools  the  tremulous  reflection  of 
the  stars.  Not  for  an  instant  did  he  relax  his  stroke,  though 
the  regret  took  more  definitive  shape  behind  him.  Convicted 
and  sentenced,  he  was  still  part  of  the  life  of  trien,  just  as  a 
man  whom  others  are  trying  to  hurl  from  a  tower  is  on  the 
tower  till  he  has  fallen.  He  himself  had  not  fallen;  he  had 
jumped  oflT,  while  there  was  still  a  chance  of  keeping  his 
ibothold. 

It  required  an  hour  or  two  of  outward  rhythmic  movement 
and  confused  inward  feeling  to  get  him  ready  for  his  next 
7» 


THE        WILD 


O  L  I  r  E 


mental  step.  He  had  jumped  oiF  the  tower;  true;  but  he 
was  alive  and  well,  with  no  bones  broken.  What  should  he 
do  now  ?  Should  he  try  to  tear  the  tower  down  ?  The 
attempt  would  not  be  so  very  ludicrous,  seeing  he  should 
only  have  to  join  those — socialists,  anarchists,  faddists — 
already  at  the  work.  But  he  admired  the  tower,  and  pre- 
ferred to  see  is  stand.  If  he  did  anything  at  all,  it  would 
be  to  try  to  creep  back  into  it. 

The  reflection  gave  still  another  turn  to  his  thoughts.  He 
was  passing  Burlington  by  this  time — the  electric  lamps 
throwing  broad  bands  of  light  along  the  deserted,  up-hill 
streets,  between  the  sleeping  houses.  It  was  the  first  city 
he  had  seen  since  leaving  New  York  to  begin  his  useless 
career  in  the  mountains.  The  sight  moved  him  with  an  odd 
curiosity,  not  free  from  a  homesick  longing  for  normal, 
simple  ways  of  life.  He  kept  the  canoe  at  a  standstill, 
looking  hungrily  up  the  empty  thoroughfares,  as  a  poor 
ghost  may  gaze  at  familiar  scenes  while  those  it  has  loved 
are  dreaming.  By-and-by  the  city  seemed  to  stir  in  its  sleep. 
Along  the  waterside  he  could  hear  the  clatter  of  some 
belated  or  too  early  waj^arer;  a  weird,  intermittent  creaking 
told  him  that  the  milk-cart  of  provincial  towns  was  on  its 
beat;  from  a  distant  freight-train  came  the  long,  melancholy 
wail  that  locomotives  give  at  night;  and  then  drowsily,  but 
with  the  promptness  of  one  conscientious  in  his  duty,  a 
cock  crew.  Ford  knew  that  somewhere,  unseen  as  yet  by 
him,  the  dawn  was  coming,  and — again  like  a  wandering 
ghost — sped  on. 

But  he  had  been  looking  on  the  tower  which  the  children 
•f  men  had  builded,  and  had  recognized  his  desire  to  clam- 
ber up  into  it  again.  He  was  not  without  the  perceptioa 
that  a  more  fiery  temperament  than  his  own — perhapi  a 
73 


THE 


WILD        OLIVE 


nobler  one — would  have  cursed  the  race  that  had  done 
him  wrong,  and  sought  to  injure  it  or  shun  it.  Misty  reccJ- 
kctions  of  proud-hearted  men  who  id  taken  this  stand 
came  back  to  him. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  do  the  same,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, humbly;  "but  what  would  be  the  use  when  I  couldn't 
keep  it  up  ?" 

Understanding  himself  thus  well,  his  purpose  became 
clearer.  Like  the  ant  or  the  beaver  that  has  seen  its  fabric 
destroyed,  he  must  set  patiently  to  work  to  reconstruct  it. 
He  suspected  a  poor-spirited  element  in  this  sort  of  cour- 
age; but  his  instinct  forced  him  within  his  limitations.  By 
dint  of  keeping  there  and  toiling  there  he  felt  sure  of  his 
ability  to  get  back  to  the  top  of  the  tower  in  such  a 
way  that  no  one  would  think  he  lacked  the  right  to  be 
on  it. 

But  he  himself  would  know  it.  He  shrank  from  that 
fact  with  the  repugnance  of  an  honest  nature  for  what  is 
not  straightforward;  but  the  matter  was  past  helping.  He 
should  be  obr  ;tJ  to  play  the  impostor  everywhere  and 
with  ever)'  one.  He  would  mingle  with  men,  shake  their 
hands,  share  their  friendships,  eat  their  bread,  and  accept 
their  favors — and  deceive  them  under  their  very  noses. 
Life  would  become  one  long  trick,  one  daily  feat  of  skill. 
Any  possible  success  he  could  win  would  lack  stability, 
would  lack  reality,  because  there  would  be  neither  truth 
nor  fact  behind  it. 

From  the  argument  that  he  was  innocent  he  got  little 
comfort.  He  had  forfeited  his  right  to  make  use  of  that 
fact  any  longer.  Had  he  stayed  where  he  w.ib  h?  could 
have  shouted  it  out  till  they  gagged  him  in  the  death-chair. 
Now  he  must  be  dumb  on  the  subject  forevermore.  In 
74 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

his  ditappearance  there  was  an  acceptation  of  guik  which 
he  must  remain  powerless  to  explain  away. 

Many  minutes  of  dull  pain  passed  in  dwelling  on  that 
point.  He  could  work  neither  back  from  it  nor  forward. 
His  mirtd  could  only  dwell  on  r  with  an  aching  admission 
of  its  justice,  while  he  searched  the  sky  for  the  A?    n. 

In  spite  of  the  crowing  of  the  cock  he  saw  no  si  .  of  it — 
unles*  it  was  that  the  mountains  on  the  New  York  ..hore 
detached  themselves  more  distinctly  from  the  sky  of  which 
they  had  seemed  to  form  a  part.  On  the  Vermont  side 
there  was  nothing  but  a  heaped-up  darkness,  night  piled  on 
night,  till  the  eye  reached  the  upper  heavens  and  the  stars. 
He  paddled  on,  steadily,  rhythmically,  having  no  sense 
of  hunger  or  fatigue,  while  he  groped  for  the  clew  that  was 
to  guide  him  when  he  stepped  on  land.  He  felt  the  need 
of  a  moral  programme,  of  some  pillar  of  cloud  and  fire  that 
would  show  him  a  way  he  should  be  justified  in  taking. 
He  expressed  it  to  himself  by  a  kind  of  aspiraticm  which 
he  kept  repeating,  sometimts  half  aloud : 
"O  Lord,  O  Holy  One!  I  want  to  be  a  man!" 
Suddenly  he  struck  the  water  with  so  violent  a  dash 
that  the  canoe  swerved  and  headed  landward. 

"By  God!"  he  tiuttered,  under  his  breath,  "I've  got 
it.  .  .  .  It  isn't  my  fault.  .  .  .  It's  theirs.  .  .  .  They've  put 
me  in  this  fix.  .  .  .  They've  brought  this  dodging,  and 
shifting,  and  squirming  upon  me.  .  .  .  The  subterfuge  isn't 
mine;  it's  theirs.  .  .  .  They've  taken  the  responsibility  from 
me.  .  .  .  When  they  strip  me  of  rights  they  strip  me  of 
duties.  .  .  .  They've  forced  me  where  right  and  wrong 
don't  exist  for  me  any  more.  .  .  .  They've  pitched  me  out 
of  their  Organized  Society,  and  I've  had  to  go.  .  .  .  Now 
I'm  free  .  .  .  and  I  shall  profit  by  my  freedom." 
75 


THE        H^  I   L   D        O   L    I   y  E 


1 


ti 


In  the  excitement  of  these  discoveries  he  smote  tiie 
waters  again.  He  remembered  having  said  something  of 
the  sort  on  the  night  of  his  interview  with  Wayne;  but  he 
had  not  till  now  grasped  its  significance.  It  was  the  emanci- 
pation of  his  conscience.  Whatever  difRculties  he  might 
encounter  from  outside.  He  should  be  hampered  by  no 
scruples  from  within.  He  had  been  relieved  of  them;  they 
had  been  taken  from  him.  Since  none  had  a  duty  toward 
him,  he  had  no  duty  toward  any.  If  it  suited  his  purposes 
to  juggle  with  men,  the  blame  must  rest  upon  themselves. 
He  could  but  do  his  best  with  the  maimed  existence  they 
had  left  to  him.  Self-respect  would  entail  observance  of 
the  common  laws  of  truth  and  honesty,  but  beyond  this 
he  need  never  allow  consideration  for  another  to  come  be- 
fore consideration  for  himself.  He  was  absolved  from  the 
necessity  in  advance.  In  the  region  in  which  he  should 
pass  his  inner  life  there  would  be  no  occupant  but  himself. 
From  the  world  where  men  and  women  had  ties  of  love  and 
pity  and  mutual  regard  they  had  cast  him  out,  forcing  him 
into  a  spiritual  limbo  where  none  of  these  things  obtained. 
It  was  only  lawful  that  he  should  make  use  of  such  advan- 
tages as  his  lot  allowed  him. 

There  was  exaltation  in  the  way  in  which  he  grasped  this 
creed  as  his  rule  of  life;  and  looking  up  suddenly,  he  saw 
the  dawn.  It  had  taken  him  unawares,  stealinj;  like  a  gray 
mist  of  light  over  the  tops  of  the  Vermont  hills,  lifting  their 
ridges  faintly  out  of  night,  like  the  ghosts  of  so  many 
Titans.  Among  the  Adirondacks  one  high  peak  caught  the 
first  glimmer  of  advancing  day,  while  all  the  lower  range 
remained  a  gigantic  silhouette  beneath  the  perceptibly 
paling  stars.  Over  Canada  the  veil  was  still  down,  but  he 
fancied  he  could  detect  a  thinner  texture  to  the  darkness. 
76 


THE       WILD 


OLIVE 


Then,  at  he  paned  a  wooded  headland,  came  a  sleepy 
twitter,  from  some  little  pink  and  yellow  bill  barely  with- 
drawn from  in  enfolding  wing — to  be  followed  by  another, 
and  another,  and  another,  till  bodi  shores  were  aquivei 
with  that  plaintive  chirrup,  half  threnody  for  the  flying 
darkness,  half  welcome  to  the  ssn,  like  the  praise  of  a 
choir  of  children  roused  to  sing  midnight  matins,  but  still 
dreaming.  Ford's  dip  was  softer  now,  as  thoiif;h  he  feared 
to  disturb  that  vibrant  drowsiness;  but  when,  later,  cape* 
and  coves  began  to  define  themselves  throufk  the  gray 
gloaming,  and,  later  still,  a  shimmer  of  iirf"i  i  ■  appeared 
above  the  eastern  summits,  he  knew  it  was  time  to  think 
of  a  refuge  from  the  daylight. 

The  saffron  became  fire;  the  fire  lit  up  a  heaven  of 
chrysoprase  and  rose.  Where  the  lake  had  been  as  a  metal 
mirroi  for  the  stars,  it  rippled  and  dimpled  and  gleamed 
with  the  tints  of  mother-of-pearl.  He  knew  the  sun  must 
be  on  the  farther  slope  of  the  Green  Mountains,  because 
the  face  they  turned  toward  him  was  dense  in  shadow,  like 
the  unilluminated  portion  of  the  moon.  On  the  western 
shore  the  Adirondacks  were  rising  out  of  the  bath  of  night 
as  dewy  fresh  as  if  they  had  been  just  created. 

But  the  sun  was  actually  in  the  sky  when  he  perceived 
that  he  no  longer  had  the  lake  to  himself.  From  a  village 
nestling  in  some  hidden  cove  a  rowboat  pulled  out  into  the 
open — a  fisherman  after  the  morning's  catch.  It  was  easy 
enough  for  Ford  to  keep  at  a  prudent  distance;  but  the 
companionship  caused  him  an  uneasiness  that  was  not  dis' 
pelted  before  the  fir.-Jt  morning  steamer  came  pounding 
from  the  northward.  He  fixed  his  actention  then  on  a  tiny 
islet  some  two  or  three  miles  ahead.  There  were  trees  on 
it,  and  probably  ferns  and  grass.  Reaching  it,  he  found 
8  77 


T   H   E        IV  I   L   D        OLIVE 

himself  in  a  portion  of  the  lake  forest-banked  and  little 
frequented.  Pastures  and  fields  of  ripening  grain  on  the 
most  distant  slopes  of  Vermont  gave  the  nearest  token  of 
life.  All  about  him  there  was  solitude  and  stillness — ^with 
the  glorious,  bracing  ,  eauty  of  the  newly  risen  day. 

Landing  with  stiffen'  '  limbs,  he  drew  up  the  canoe  on  a 
bit  of  sandy  beach,  ov  >•  ..ch  sturdy  old  bushes,  elder  and 
birch,  battered  by  tin  ,:jrth  winds,  leaned  in  friendly,  con- 
cealing protection,  ne  himself  would  be  able  to  lie  down 
here,  among  the  uU  ferns  and  the  stunted  blueberry-scrub, 
as  secluded  and  secure  as  ever  he  had  been  in  prison. 

Being  hungry  and  thirsty,  he  ate  and  drank,  consulting 
his  map  the  while  and  fixing  approximately  his  where- 
abouts. He  looked  at  his  little  watch  and  wound  it  up, 
and  fingered  the  pages  of  the  railway  guide  he  found  be- 
side it. 

The  acts  brought  up  the  image  of  the  girl  who  had  fur- 
nished him  with  these  useful  accessories  to  flight.  For 
lack  of  another  name  he  called  her  the  Wild  Olive— re- 
membering her  yearning,  not  wholly  unlike  his  own,  to  be 
grafted  back  into  the  good  olive-tiee  of  Organized  Society. 
With  some  shame  he  perceived  that  he  had  scarcely  thought 
of  her  through  the  night.  It  was  astounding  to  recollect 
that  not  twelve  hours  ago  she  had  kissed  him  and  sent  him 
on  his  journey.  To  him  the  gulf  between  then  and  now 
was  so  wide  and  blank  that  it  might  have  been  twelve 
weeks,  or  twelve  months,  or  twelve  years.  It  had  been  the 
night  of  the  birth  of  a  new  creature,  of  the  transmigration 
of  a  soul;  it  had  no  measurement  in  time,  and  threw  all 
that  preceded  it  into  the  mists  of  prenatal  ages. 

These  thoughts  passed  through  his  mi.id  as  he  made  a 
pillow  for  himself  with  his  white  flannel  jacket,  and  twisted 
78 


THE        WILD 


OLIVE 


the  fern*  above  it  into  a  ihelter  from  the  flies.  Having 
done  this,  he  stood  still  and  pondered. 

"Have  I  really  become  a  new  creature  ?"  he  asked  himself. 

There  was  much  in  the  outward  conditions  to  encourage 
the  fancy,  while  his  inner  consciousness  found  it  easy  to 
be  credulous.  Nothing  was  left  of  Norrie  Ford  but  the 
mere  flesh  and  bones — the  least  stable  part  of  personality. 
Norrie  Ford  was  gone — not  dead,  but  gone — blasted,  an- 
nihilated, stamped  out  of  existence,  by  the  act  of  Organized 
Society.  In  its  p::<ce  the  night  of  transition  had  called  up 
tome  one  else. 

"Bur  who  ? .  .  .  Who  ami?...  What  am  I  ?" 

Above  all,  a  name  seemed  required  to  give  him  entity. 
It  was  a  repetition  of  his  feeling  about  the  Wild  Olive — 
the  girl  in  the  cabin  in  the  woods.  Suddenly  he  remem- 
bered that,  if  he  had  found  a  name  for  her,  she  had  also 
found  one  for  him — and  that  it  was  written  on  the  steamer 
ticket  in  his  pocket.     He  drew  it  out,  and  read: 

"Herbert  Strange." 

He  repeated  it  at  first  in  dull  surprise,  and  then  with  dis- 
approval. It  was  not  the  kind  of  name  he  would  have 
chosen.  It  was  odd,  noticeable — a  name  people  would  re- 
member. He  would  have  preferred  something  common- 
place, such  as  might  be  found  for  a  column  or  two  in  any 
city  directory.  She  had  probably  got  it  from  a  novel — 
or  made  it  up.  Girls  did  such  things.  It  was  a  pity,  but 
there  was  no  help  for  it  now.  As  Herbert  Strange  he  must 
go  on  board  the  steamer,  and  so  he  should  be  called  until — 

But  he  was  too  tired  to  fix  a  date  for  the  resuniption  of 

his  own  name  or  the  taking  of  another.     Flinging  himself  on 

his  couch  of  moss  and  trailing  ground-spruce,  with  the  ferns 

dosing  over  him,  and  the  pines  over  them,  he  was  soon  asleep. 

79 


if 

If 


Part  II 


STRANGE 


MIC«OCWY   RESOIUTION    TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  o„d  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2l 


I.Q    |fia 
I.I 


11.25 


112.5 


^  m 

li£     12.0 


1.6 


^    ^jPPUEg  IIVl^GE    Inc 


~.=         Rochester.   He« 


M6j   462  -  0300  -  Phon. 
"6)    288-  !!>989  -  Fa. 


^mmm 


•  i 


vn 


RESSED  in  overalls  that  had   once    been 
white,  he  was  superintending  the  stacking  of 
wool  in  a  long,  brick-walled,  iron-roofed  shed 
.^p.j.  in  Buenos  Aires  when  the  thought  came  to 
^^11  him  how  easy  it  had  all  been.  He  paused  for 
a  mmutc  in  his  work  of  inspection — standing  by  an  open 
window,  where  a  whiff  of  fresh  air  from  off  the  mud-brown 
Rio  de  la  Plata  relieved  the  heavy,  greasy  smell  of  the  pile* 
of  unwashed  wool— just  to  review  again  the  past  eighteen 
months.     Below  him  stretched  the  noisy  docks,  with  their 
row  of  electric  cranes,  as  regular  as  a  line  of  street  lamps, 
loadmg  or  unloading  a  mile  of  steamers  lying  broadside  on, 
and  flying  all  flags  but  the  Stars  and  Stripes.     Wines,  silk, 
machmery,  textiles  were  coming  out;  wheat,  cattle,  hides, 
and  beef  were  pouring  in.     In  the  confusion  of  tongues  that 
reached  him  he  could,  on  occasions,  catch   the  tones  of 
Spaniard,  Frenchman,  Swede,  and  Italian,  together  with  all 
the  varieties  of  English  speech  from  Highland  Scotch  to 
Gjckney;    but  none  of  the  intonations  of  his  native  land. 
The  comparative  rarity  of  anything  American  in  his  city 
of  refuge,  while  it  added  to  his  sense  of  exile,  heightened 
his  feeling  of  security.     It  was  still  another  of  the  happy 
circumstances  that  had  helped  him. 

The  strain  under  which  he  had  lived  during  this  year  and 
a  half  had  undoubtedly  been  great;   but  he  could  see  now 
83 


THE        WILD 


OLIVE 


f  ■ 


that  it  had  been  inward  strain — the  mental  strain  of  un- 
ceasing apprehension,  the  spiritual  strain  of  the  new  creature 
in  casting  off  the  old  husk,  and  adapting  itself  not  merely 
to  new  surroundings,  but  to  a  new  life.  This  had  been 
severe.  He  was  not  a  rover,  and  still  less  an  adventurer, 
in  any  of  the  senses  attached  to  that  word.  His  instincts 
were  for  the  settled,  the  wtil-ordered,  and  the  practical.  He 
would  have  been  content  with  any  humdrum  existence  that 
permitted  his  peaceable,  commercially  gifted  soul  to  develop 
in  lis  natural  environment.  The  process,  th'  ^re,  by 
which  Norrie  Ford  became  Herbert  Strange,  e/en  in  his 
own  thoughts,  had  been  one  of  inner  travail,  though  the 
outward  conditions  could  not  have  been  more  favorable. 
Now  that  he  had  reached  a  point  where  his  more  obvious 
anxieties  were  passing  away,  and  the  hope  of  safety  was 
becoming  a  reality,  he  could  look  back  and  see  how  rela- 
tively easy  everything  had  been. 

He  had  leisure  for  reflection  because  it  was  the  hour  for 
the  men's  midday  meal  and  siesta.  He  could  see  them 
grouped  together — some  thirty-odd — at  the  far  end  of  the 
shed — sturdy  little  Italians,  black-eyed,  smiling,  thrifty, 
dirty,  and  contented  to  a  degree  that  made  them  incom- 
prehensible to  the  ambitious,  upward-toiling  American  set 
over  them.  They  sat,  or  lounged,  on  piles  of  wood,  or  on 
the  floor,  some  chattering,  most  of  them  asleep.  He  had 
begun  like  them.  He  had  stacked  wool  under  orders  till 
he  had  made  himself  capable  of  being  in  command.  He 
had  been  beneath  the  ladder;  and  though  his  foot  was  only 
on  the  lowest  rung  of  it  even  now,  he  was  satisfied  to  have 
made  this  first  step  upward. 

He  could  not  be  ,^aid  to  have  taken  it  to  his  own  lurpriae, 
since  he  had  pr"- pared  himself  for  it,  and  for  other  audi 
84 


THE        WILD        O    L    I   F  E 


steps  to  follow  it,  knowing  that  they  must  become  feasible 
in  time.  He  had  been  given  to  understand  that  what  the 
Argentine,  in  common  with  some  other  countries,  needed 
most  was  neither  men  nor  capital,  but  intelligence.  Men 
were  pouring  in  from  every  corner  of  the  globe;  capital  was 
keen  in  looking  for  its  opportunity;  but  for  intelligence  the 
deu;and  was  always  greater  than  the  supply. 

The  first  intimation  of  such  a  need  had  come  to  him  on 
the  Empress  of  Erin,  in  mid-Atlantic,  by  a  chance  oppor- 
tunity of  the  voyage.  It  was  on  one  of  the  first  days  of 
liberty  when  he  had  ventured  to  mix  freely  with  his  fellow- 
passengers.  Up  to  the  present  he  had  followed  the  rule  of 
conduct  adoDted  at  the  little  Canadian  station  of  Saint  Jean 
du  Clou  Noir.  He  went  into  public  when  necessary,  but 
no  oftener.  He  did  then  what  other  people  did,  in  the  way 
to  attract  the  Last  attention.  The  season  favored  him,  for 
amid  the  throngs  of  early  autumn  travellers,  moving  from 
country  back  to  town,  or  from  seaside  resorts  to  the  moun- 
tains, he  passed  unnoticed.  At  Quebec  he  was  one  of  the 
crowd  of  tourists  come  to  see  the  picturesque  old  tovm. 
At  Rimouski  he  was  lost  among  the  trainful  of  people  from 
the  Canadian  maritime  provinces  taking  the  Atlantic 
steamer  at  a  convenient  port.  He  lived  through  each  min- 
ute in  expectation  of  the  law's  tap  on  his  shoulder;  but  he 
acquired  the  habit  of  nonchalance.  On  shipboard  it  was 
a  relief  to  be  able  to  shut  himself  up  in  his  cabin — his  suite! 
— feigning  sickness,  but  really  allowing  his  taut  nerves  to 
relax,  as  he  watched  first  the  outlines  of  the  Laurentides, 
and  then  the  shores  of  Anticosti,  and  lastly  the  iron-black 
coast  of  Labrador,  follow  each  other  below  the  horizon. 
Two  or  three  appearances  at  table  gave  him  confidence 
that  he  had  nothing  to  fear.  By  degrees  he  allowed  him* 
8S 


I-  : 


THE 


tf'  I   L   D 


O    L    I   F  E 


•elf  to  walk  up  and  down  the  declc,  where  it  was  a  queer 
sensation  to  feel  that  the  long  row  of  eyes  must  of  necessity 
be  fixed  upon  him.  The  mere  fact  that  he  was  wearing 
another  man's  clothes — clothes  he  had  found  in  the  cabin 
trunk,  that  had  come  on  board  for  him — produced  a  shy- 
ness scarcely  mitigated  by  the  knowledge  that  be  was  far 
from  looking  grotesque. 

Little  by  little  he  plucked  up  courage  to  enter  the  smok- 
ing-room, where  the  tacit,  mitter-of-course  welcome  of  his 
own  sex  seemed  to  him  like  extraordinary  affability.  An 
occasional  word  from  a  neighbor,  or  an  invitation  to  "take 
a  hand  at  poker,"  or  to  "have  a  cocktail,"  was  like  an  as- 
surance to  a  man  who  fancies  himself  dead  that  he  really  is 
alive.  He  joined  in  no  conversations  and  met  no  advances, 
but  from  the  possibilities  of  doing  so  he  would  go  bac  k  to 
his  cabin  smiling. 

The  nearest  approach  to  pleasure  he  allowed  himself  was 
to  sit  in  a  corner  and  listen  to  the  talk  of  his  fellow-men, 
It  was  sometin-es  amusing,  but  oftener  stupid;  it  turned 
largely  on  food,  with  irrelevant  interludes  on  business.  It 
never  went  beyond  the  range  of  topics  possible  to  the  Ameri- 
can or  Canadian  merchants,  professional  men,  politicians, 
and  saloon-keepers,  who  form  the  rank  and  file  of  smoking- 
room  society  on  any  Atlantic  liner;  but  the  Delphic  wor- 
shipper never  listened  to  Apollo's  oracle  with  a  more  rapt 
devotion  than  Ford  to  this  intercommunion  of  souls. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  he  chanced  one  day  to  hear  a 
man  speaking  of  the  Argentine.  The  remarks  were  casual, 
choppy,  and  without  importance,  hut  the  speaker  evidently 
knew  the  ground.  Ford  had  already  noticed  him,  because 
they  occupied  adjoining  steamer-chairs  —  a  tall,  sallow 
Englishman  of  the  ineffectual  type,  with  sagging  shoulders, 
86 


T   II   E        IV   I   L   D 


OLIVE 


a  drooping  mustache,  and  furtive  eyes.  Ford  had  scarcely 
thought  of  the  Argentine  since  ihe  girl  in  the  cabin  had 
mentioned  it — now  ten  or  twelve  days  a!;o;  but  the  neces- 
sity of  havina;  an  objective  point,  and  one  sufficiently  dis- 
tant, turned  his  mind  again  in  that  direction. 

"Did  I  hear  you  speaking  yesterday  of  Buenos  Aires  .^** 
he  ventured  to  ask,  on  the  next  occasion  when  he  found 
himself  seated  beside  his  neighbor  on  deck. 

The  Englishman  drew  his  brier-root  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
glanced  sidewise  from  the  magazine  he  was  reading,  and 
jerked  his  head  in  assent. 

"What  kind  of  plate  did  it  seem  to  you  ?" 

"Jolly  rotten." 

Pondering  this  reply,  Ford  might  have  lost  courage  to 
speak  again  had  he  not  caught  the  eye  of  the  Englishman's 
wife  as  she  leaned  forward  and  peeped  at  him  across  her 
husband's  brier-root.  There  was  something  in  her  starry 
glance — an  invitation,  or  an  incitement — that  impelled  him 
to  continue. 

"I've  been  told  it's  the  land  of  new  opportunities." 

The  Englishman  grunted  without  looking  up.  "I  didn't 
see  many." 

"May  I  ask  if  you  saw  any?" 

"None  fit  for  a  white  man." 

"My  husband  means  none  fit  for  a — gentleman.  I  liked 
the  place." 

From  the  woman's  steely  smile  and  bitter-sweet  tones 
Ford  got  hints  of  masculine  inefficiency  and  feminine  con- 
tempt which  he  had  no  wish  to  follow  up.  He  knew  from 
fragments  of  talk  overheard  in  the  smoking-room  that  they 
had  tried  Mexico,  California,  and  Saskatchewan  in  addition 
to  South  America.  From  the  impatience  with  which  she 
87 


.;t 


t,  r 


THE        WILD 


OLIVE 


shook  the  foot  just  visible  beneath  the  steamer-rug,  while 
all  the  list  of  her  bearing  feigned  repose,  he  guessed  her 
humiliation  at  returning  empty  to  the  land  she  had  left 
with  an  Anglo-Saxon's  pioneering  hope,  beside  a  husband 
who  could  do  nothing  but  curse  luck.  To  get  over  the 
awkward  minute  he  spoke  hurriedly. 

"I've  heard  of  a  very  good  house  out  there — Stephens 
and  Jarrott.  Do  you  happen  to  know  anything  about 
them  ?" 

"Wool,"  the  Englishman  grunted  again.  "Wool  and 
wheat.     Beastly  brutes." 

"They  were  horribly  impertinent  to  my  husband,"  the 
woman  spoke  up,  with  a  kind  of  feverish  eagerness  to  have 
her  say.  "They  actually  asked  him  if  there  was  anything 
he  could  do.     Fancy  I" 

"Oh,  I  know  people  of  that  sort  put  a  lot  of  superfluous 
questions  to  you,"  F'ord  said.     But  the  lady  hurri.d  on. 

"As  to  questions,  there  are  probably  fewer  asked  you  in 
Argentine  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world.  It's  one  of  the 
standing  jokes  of  the  place,  both  in  Buenos  Aires  and  out 
in  the  Camp.  Of  course,  the  old  Spanish  families  are  all 
right;  but  when  it  comes  to  foreigners  a  social  cat  chism 
wouldn't  do.  That's  one  of  the  reasons  the  place  didn't 
agree  with  us.  We  wanted  people  to  know  who  we'd  been 
before  we  got  there;  but  that  branch  of  knowledge  isn't 
cultivated." 

"More  beastly  Johnnies  in  the  Argentine  passin'  under 
names  not  their  own,"  said  the  man,  moved  to  speak,  at 
last,  "than  in  all  the  rest  of  the  world  put  together.  Heard 
a  story  at  the  Jockey  Qub — lot  of  beastly  native  bounders 
in  the  Jorkey  Qub — heard  a  story  at  the  Jockey  Club  of  a 
little  Irish  Johnny  who'd  been  cheatin'  at  cards.     Three 


THE 


IV  I  L    D 


OLIVE 


other  asses  kicked  him  out.  Beggar  turned  at  the  door 
and  got  in  his  lick  of  revenge.  'Say  hovs,  d'ycz  know 
why  they  call  me  Mickey  Flan.igan  out  here  .'  Because  it's 
me  na-ame.'     Beggar  'd  got  'em  all  there." 

Ford  nerved  himself  to  laugh,  but  made  an  excuse  for 
rising. 

"Oh,  there's  lots  of  cleverness  among  them,"  the  lady 
observed,  before  he  had  time  to  get  away.  "In  fact,  it's 
one  of  the  troubles  with  the  country — for  people  like  us. 
There's  too  much  competition  in  brains.  My  husband  hit 
the  right  nail  on  the  head  when  he  said  there  was  no  chance 
for  any  beastly  Johnny  out  the:c,  unless  he  could  use  his 
bloomin'  mind — and  for  us  that  was  out  of  the  question." 

Ford  never  spoke  to  them  again,  but  he  meditated  on  their 
words,  finding  himself  at  the  end  of  twenty-four  hours  in 
possession  of  a  new  light.  "I've  got  to  use  my  bloomin' 
mind."  The  words  seemed  to  offer  him  the  clew  to  life.  It 
was  the  answer  to  the  question,  "What  should  I  do  thertf" 
which  positively  asked  itself,  whenever  he  thought  of  seek- 
ing a  refuge  in  th's  country  or  in  that.  It  came  as  a  dis- 
covery that  within  himself  was  the  power  that  would  enable 
him  to  make  the  best  of  any  country,  and  the  country  to 
make  the  best  of  him. 

He  could  hardly  have  explained  how  his  decision  to  try 
Argentina  had  become  fixed.  Until  he  saw  whether  or  not 
he  should  get  successfully  ashore  at  Liverpool  there  was  a 
paralysis  of  all  mental  effort;  but  once  on  the  train  for 
London  his  plans  appeared  before  him  already  formed. 
The  country  where  few  questions  were  asked  and  the  past 
had  no  importance  was  clearly  the  place  for  him.  Within 
a  fortnight  he  was  a  second-class  passenger  on  board  the 
Royal  Mail  Steam  Packet  Parana,  bound  for  Buenos  Aire* 
89 


^«!.. 


THE        IV   I   L    D        O    L    I   V  E 


— thus  fulhlling,  almost  unexpectedly  to  himself,  the  sug- 
gestion iiiiiUc  by  the  pirl  in  the  Adirondack  cabin,  whose 
star,  as  he  began  to  believe,  must  rule  l-.is  fate. 

He  tliDu^lit  of  her  now  and  then,  but  always  witli  the 
same  .-uriuus  sense  of  remoteness — or  unreality,  as  of  a 
figure  seen  in  a  dream.  Were  it  not  for  the  substantial 
tokens  of  her  actuality  he  possessed  she  would  have  seemed 
to  him  like  the  heroine  of  a  play.  He  would  have  reproached 
himself  fur  disloyalty  if  the  intensity  of  each  ininute  as  he 
had  to  meet  it  had  not  been  an  excuse  for  him.  The  time 
would  come  when  the  pressure  of  the  instant  would  be  lest 
great,  and  he  should  be  able  to  get  back  the  emotion  with 
which  he  left  her.  Perhaps  if  she  had  been  "his  type  of 
girl,"  her  image  would  not  have  faded  so  quickly. 

There  was  but  one  thing  for  which  be  was  not  grateful 
to  her.  She  had  fixed  the  name  of  Herbert  Strange 
upon  him  iii  such  a  way  that  he  was  unable  to  shake 
it  off.  His  own  first  name  was  the  unobjectionable  mon- 
osyllable John— though  he  had  always  been  known  by 
his  less  familiar  middle  name,  Norrie  — and  as  John 
Ford  he  could  have  faced  the  world  with  a  certain 
amount  of  bluff.  He  meant  to  begin  the  attempt  im- 
mediately on  reaching  London,  but  the  difficulty  of  ap- 
pearii:g  in  a  hotel  under  one  name  while  everything  he 
brought  with  him  bore  another  was  patent  to  him  at  once. 
Similarly,  he  could  not  receive  the  correspondence  incidental 
to  his  outfit  and  his  passage  under  the  name  of  Ford  in  a 
house  where  he  was  knoviin  as  Strange.  Having  applied  for 
his  passage  as  Strange,  he  knew  it  would  create  comment 
if  he  asked  to  be  put  down  in  the  books  as  Ford.  Do  what 
he  would  he  was  obliged  to  appear  on  the  printed  list  of 
second-cabin  passengers  as  Herbert  Strange,  and  he  had 
go 


T   H    E        //'    I   L    D 


O    L    I   F  E 


made  at  least  one  act|uaintance  wlio  would  expect  to  call 
him  so  after  tlicv  reached  land. 

This  was  a  little,  rican-shaven  itian,  in  the  nt.;;hborliood 
of  sixty,  always  dressed  at  sea  as  he  probably  dressed  on 
shore.  He  wore  nothing  but  black,  with  a  white  shirt  and 
a  ready-made  black  bow-tie.  He  might  have  been  a  butler, 
an  elderly  valet,  or  a  member  of  some  discreet  religious 
order  in  street  costume.  Ford  had  beard  a  flippant  young 
Frenchman  speak  of  him  as  an  "ancicn  curt,  qui  a  fait 
quelque  betise";  and  indeed  there  was  .ibout  him  that 
stamp  of  the  ecclesiastic  which  is  sometimes  ineffaceable. 

"1  call  myself  Durand,"  he  said  to  Ford,  using  the  con- 
veniently ambiguous  French  idiom,  "je  m'appelle  Durand." 

"Et  je  m'appclle  Str.-'ige,  I  call  myself  Strange,"  Ford 
had  replied,  claiming  the  name  for  the  first  time  without 
hesitation,  but  feeling  the  irrevocable  nature  of  the  words 
as  soon  as  he  had  uttered  them. 

Out  of  the  crowd  of  second-rate  Europeans  of  all  races 
who  made  up  the  second  cabin,  the  man  wiio  called  himself 
Strange  had  selected  the  man  who  called  bimnelf  Durand 
by  some  obscure  instinct  of  affinity.  "He  looks  like  an  old 
chap  who  could  give  one  information,"  was  Straii;;e's  own 
way  of  puf'ng  it,  not  caring  to  confess  that  he  w  as  feeling 
after  a  bit  of  sympathy.  But  the  give  a. id  take  of  infor- 
mation became  the  basis  of  their  friendship,  and  imparted 
the  first  real  stimulus  to  the  young  man's  awkward  etforts 
to  use  his  mind. 

Monsieur  Durand  bad  been  thirty  years  in  the  Argen- 
tine, observing  the  place  and  the  people,  native  and  foreign, 
with  the  impartial  shrewdness  only  possible  to  one  who 
lought  little  for  himself.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  share  the 
fruits  of  his  experience  with  one  so  eager  to  learn,  for 
9' 


THE 


ir  I  L  n 


0  L  I  y  E 


I 
11 


l|, 


young  men  were  not  in  the  habit  of  showir;^  him  difirencc. 
He  coulJ  till  Mr.  Straiij'i-  iii:iiiy  thiiij;s  that  wdulil  l)u  to  his 
advantage — what  to  ilo — wliat  to  avoid  -wliat  sou  of  place 
to  live  in — what  he  ou;tlit  to  pay— and  what  sort  ot  com- 
pany to  keep. 

Yi'5,  he  knew  the  firm  of  Stephens  and  Jariott-  an  ex- 
cellent house.  There  was  no  Mr.  Stephens  ninv,  only  a 
Mr.  Jarrott.  Mr.  Stephens  had  helonj;ed  to  the  great 
days  of  American  enterprise  in  the  southern  hi  niisphcre, 
to  the  time  of  W  heelwrit;ht,  and  Halscy,  and  Hale.  The 
Civil  War  had  put  an  end  to  fli.it.  Mr.  Jarrott  had  come 
later — a  good  man,  not  generally  understood.  Me  had  suf- 
fered a  great  loss  a  few  years  ago  in  the  death  of  his  hrother- 
in-law  and  partner,  Mr.  CoKa.K.  Mrs.  Colfax,  a  pretty 
little  woman,  who  hadn't  old  age  in  her  Wood  either— one 
could  see  that — had  gone  hack  to  the  United  States  with 
her  child — but  a  child! — blond  as  an  angel — altogether 
darling — lout  a  fait  niignonne.  Monsieur  Durand  thought 
he  remembered  hearing  that  Mrs.  Colfax  had  married 
again,  but  he  couldn't  say  for  certain.  What  would  you  ? 
One  heard  so  many  things.  He  knew  less  of  the  family 
since  the  last  boy  died — the  boy  to  whom  he  gave  lessons 
in  Spanish  and  French.  Death  hadn't  spared  the  house- 
hold— taking  the  three  sons  one  after  another  and  leaving 
father  and  mother  alone.  It  was  a  thousand  pities  Mrs. 
Colfax  had  taken  the  little  girl  away.  They  loved  her  as 
if  she  had  been  their  ow: — especially  after  the  boys  died. 
An  excellent  house!  Mr.  Strange  couldn't  do  better  than 
seek  an  entry  there — it  is  1  who  tell  you  so — c'esi  moi  qui 
vous  h  Jis. 

All  this  was  said  in  very  good  English,  with  occasional 
lapses  into  French,  in  a  soft,  benevolent  voice,  with  slow 

Q2 


THE        WILD        0    L    I   r  E 

benedictory  movements  of  the  hands,  more  and  more  sug- 
gestive of  an  ecclesiastic  fn  civile — or  under  a  cloud. 
Strange  stole  an  occasidiial  glance  into  the  delicate,  clear- 
cut  face,  where  the  thin  lips  were  compressed  into  ptrma- 
nent  lines  of  pain,  and  the  sunken  hrown  eyes  looked  out 
from  under  scholarly  hnnvs  with  the  kind  of  hopeful  an- 
guish a  penitent  sniil  nii;;ht  feel  in  the  midst  of  purifying 
flames,  lie  rcnKniluied  :i:::iin  that  the  flippant  young 
Frenchman  had  said,  "IJn  ancicn  cure,  (]iii  a  fait  quelque 
betise."  Was  it  possihle  thai  some  trairic  sin  lay  under 
this  gentle  life  ?  And  was  the  foMr-funnvlkd,  tn  in-screwed 
Parana  hut  a  ;;hosily  ship  liL-aiinc;  a  car;;o  of  haunted  sol  i 
into  their  eartiilv  pur'atory  ? 

"  But  listen,  monsieur,"  the  old  man  hej^an  next  day.  But 
listen!  There  would  be  diHiculties.  Stephens  and  Jarrott 
employed  only  picked  men,  men  with  some  experii,nce — ex- 
cept for  the  mere  manual  labor  such  as  the  Italians  could 
perform.  Wouldn't  it  be  well  for  Mr.  Strange  to  qualify 
himself  a  little  before  risking  a  refusal?  .Ali,  but  how? 
Monsieur  Durand  would  explain.  There  was  fiist  the  ques- 
tion of  Spanish.  No  one  could  get  along  in  the  Argentine 
without  a  wor!;in;;  knowledge  of  that  tongue.  Monsieur 
Durand  himsoif  ;;ave  lessons  in  it- — and  in  Krench — but  in 
the  English  and  American  colonics  of  Buenos  Aires  exclu- 
sively. 'i'JH're  were  reasons  why  he  did  not  care  to  teach 
among  Catholic:;,  though  he  himself  was  a  fervent  one,  and 
he  hoped— rcptiitant.  He  pronounced  the  last  word  with 
some  emphasis,  as  though  to  call  Strange's  attention  to  it. 
If  his  young  friend  would  give  him  the  pleasure  of  taking 
a  few  lessons,  they  could  begin  even  now.  It  would  while 
away  the  time  on  the  voyage.  He  had  his  own  method  of 
teaching,  a  method  based  on  the  Berlitz  system,  but  not 
1  9.? 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


I      ! 


I 

li 


borrowed  from  it,  and,  he  ventured  to  say,  possessing  its 
own  good  points.  For  example:  el  tabaco — la  pi  pa — los 
cigarillos.  Que  es  esto?  Esto  es  la  pipa.  Very  simple.  In 
a  few  weeks'  time  the  pupil  is  carrying  on  conversations. 

It  would  be  an  incalculable  advantage  to  Mr.  Strange  if 
he  could  enter  on  his  Argentine  life  with  some  command  of 
the  vernacular.  It  might  even  be  well  to  defer  his  search 
for  permanent  employment  until  he  could  have  that  accom- 
plishment to  his  credit.  If  he  possessed  a  little  money — 
even  a  very  little—  Oh,  he  did  ?  Then  so  much  the 
better.  He  need  not  live  on  it  entirely,  but  it  would  be 
something  to  fall  back  on  while  getting  the  rudiments  of  his 
education.  In  the  mean  time  he  could  learn  a  little  about 
wool  if  he  picked  up  jobs —  Oh,  very  humble  ones! — they 
were  always  to  be  had  by  the  young  and  able-bodied — at  the 
Mercado  Central,  one  of  the  great  wool-markets  of  the 
world.  He  could  earn  a  few  pesetas,  acquire  practical 
experience,  and  fit  himself  out  in  Spanish,  all  at  the  same 
time. 

And  he  could  live  with  relative  economy.  Monsieur 
Durand  could  explain  that  too.  In  fact,  he  might  get  board 
and  lodging  in  the  same  house  as  himself,  with  Mrs.  Wilson 
who  conducted  a  modest  home  for  "gentlemen  only."  Mrs. 
Wilson  was  a  Protestant  —  what  they  called  a  Methodist, 
he  believed — but  her  house  was  clean,  with  a  few  flowers  in 
the  patio,  very  different  from  the  frightful  conventillos  in 
which  the  poor  were  obliged  to  herd.  If  Mr.  Strange 
thought  it  odd  that  he.  Monsieur  Durand,  should  be  living 
beneath  a  Protestant  roof— well,  there  were  reasons  which 
were  difficult  to  explain. 

Later  on,  perhaps,  Mr.  Strange  might  take  a  season  on 
some  great  sheep  estancia  out  in  the  Camp,  where  there  were 
94 


THE        WILD 


OLIVE 


diousands  of  herds  that  were  thousands  strong.  Monsieur 
Durand  could  help  him  in  that  too.  He  could  introduce 
him  to  wealthy  proprietors  whose  sons  he  had  taught.  It 
would  be  a  hard  life,  but  it  need  not  be  for  long.  He  would 
live  in  a  mud  hut,  dirty,  isolated,  with  no  companionship 
but  that  of  the  Italian  laborers  and  their  womenkind.  But 
the  outdoor  existence  would  do  him  good;  the  air  over  the 
pampas  was  like  wine;  and  the  food  would  not  be  as  bad  ai 
he  might  expect.  There  would  be  an  abundance  of  excel- 
lent meat,  chiefly  mutton,  it  was  true,  which  when  cooked 
a  la  guacho — came  concuero,  they  called  it  in  the  Camp — 
roasted  'a  the  skin  so  as  to  keep  all  the  juices  in  the  meat — t 
A  gesture  of  the  hands,  accompanied  by  a  succulent  in- 
spiration between  the  teeth,  gave  Strange  to  understand  that 
there  was  one  mitigation  at  least  to  life  on  an  Argentine 
estancia. 

To  come  into  actual  contact  with  the  sheep,  to  know 
Oxfords,  Cheviots,  Leicesters,  and  Black-faced  Downs,  to 
assist  at  the  feedings  and  washings  and  doctorings  and 
shearings,  to  follow  the  crossings  and  recrossings  and  cross- 
ings again,  that  bred  new  varieties  as  if  they  were  roses,  to 
trace  the  processes  by  which  the  Argentine  pampas  supply 
novel  resources  to  the  European  manufacturer,  and  the 
European  manufacturer  turns  out  the  smart  young  man  of 
London  or  New  York,  with  his  air  of  wearing  "the  very 
latest" — all  this  would  not  only  give  Strange  a  pleasing 
sense  of  being  at  the  root  of  things,  but  form  a  sort  of 
apprenticeship  to  his  trade. 

The  men  had  not  yet  finished  their  hour  of  siesta,  but 
Strange  himself  was  at  work.     Ten  minutes  were  sufficient 
for  his  own  snack,  and  he  never  needed  rest     Moreover,  he 
95 


"n- 


was  still  too  new  to  his  position  to  do  other  than  glory  in 
the  fact  that  he  was  a  free  being,  doing  a  man's  work,  and 
earning  a  man's  wage.  Out  in  the  Camp  he  had  been  too 
desolate  to  feel  that,  but  here  in  Buenos  Aires,  at  the  very 
moment  when  the  great  city  was  waking  to  the  knowledge 
of  her  queenship  in  the  southern  world — when  the  com- 
mercial hordes  of  the  north  were  sweeping  down  in  thousands 
of  ships  across  the  equator  to  outdo  each  other  in  her 
markets,  it  was  an  inspiring  thing  merely  to  be  alive  and 
busy.  He  was  as  proud  of  Stephens  and  Jarrott's  long 
brick  shed,  where  the  sun  beat  pitilessly  on  the  corrugated 
iron  roof,  and  the  smell  of  wool  nearly  sickened  him,  as  if 
it  had  been  a  Rothschild's  counting-house.  His  position 
there  was  just  above  the  lowest;  but  his  enthusiasm  was 
independent  of  trivial  things  like  that.  How  could  he 
lounge  about,  taking  siestas,  when  work  was  such  a  pleasure 
in  itself?  The  shed  of  which  he  had  the  oversight  was  a 
model  of  its  kind,  not  so  much  because  his  ambition  designed 
to  make  it  so,  as  because  his  ardor  could  make  it  nothing 
else. 

The  roar  of  dock  traffic  through  the  open  windows 
drowned  everything  but  the  loudest  sounds,  so  that  busily 
working,  he  heard  nothing,  and  paid  no  attention,  when 
some  one  stopped  behind  him.  He  had  turned  accidentally, 
humming  to  himself  in  the  sheer  joy  of  his  task,  when  the 
presence  of  the  stranger  caused  him  to  blush  furiously 
beneath  his  tan.  He  drew  himself  up,  like  a  soldier  to 
attention.  He  had  never  seen  the  head  of  the  firm  that 
employed  him,  but  he  had  heard  a  young  Englishman 
describe  him  as  "looking  like  a  wooden  man  just  coming 
into  life,"  so  that  he  was  enabled  to  recognize  him  now. 
He  did  look  something  like  a  wooden  man,  in  that  the  long, 
96 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


lean  face,  of  the  tone  of  parchment,  was  marked  by  the  few, 
deep,  almost  perpendicular  folds  that  give  all  the  expression 
there  is  to  a  Swiss  or  German  medieval  statue  of  a  saint 
or  warrior  in  painted  oak.  One  could  see  it  was  a  face 
that  rarely  smiled,  though  there  was  plenty  of  life  in  the 
deep-set,  gray-blue  eyes,  together  with  a  force  of  cautious, 
reserved,  and  possibly  timid,  sympathy.  Of  the  middle 
height  and  slender,  with  hair  just  turning  from  iron -gray  to 
gray,  immaculate  in  white  duck,  and  wearing  a  dignified 
Panama,  he  stood  looking  at  Strange — who,  tall  and  stal- 
wart in  his  greasy  overalls,  held  his  head  high  in  conscious 
pride  in  his  position  in  the  shed — as  Capital  might  look  at 
Labor.  It  seemed  a  long  time  before  Mr  Jarrott  spoke — 
the  natural  harshness  of  his  voice  softened  by  his  quiet 
manner. 

"You're  in  charge  of  this  gang  ?" 

"Yes,  sir," 

There  was  an  embarrassed  pause.  As  though  not  know- 
ing what  to  say  next,  Mr.  Jarrott's  gaze  travelled  down  the 
length  of  the  shed  to  where  the  Italians,  rubbing  their 
sleepy  eyes,  were  preparing  for  work  again. 

"You're  an  American,  I  believe  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"How  old  are  you  ?" 

"Not  quite  twenty-six." 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Herbert  Strange!" 

"Ah  ?    One  of  the  Stranges  of  Virginia  ?" 

"No.  sir." 

There  was  another  long  pause,  during  which  the  older 
man's  eyes  wandered  once  more  over  the  shed  and  the  piles 
of  wool,  coming  back  again  to  Strange 
97 


;^!;ii 


THE 


WILD 


OLIVE 


"You  should  pick  up  a  little  Spanish." 

"I've  been  studying  it.  Hablo  Espa5ol,  pero  no  muy 
bJen." 

Mr.  Jarrott  looked  at  him  for  a  minute  in  surprise. 

"So  much  the  better — tanto  mejor,'"  he  said,  after  a  brief 
pause,  and  passed  on. 


VIII 


E  was  again  thinking  how  easy  it  had  been, 
as  he  stood,  more  than  three  years  later,  on 
the  bluffs  of  Rosario,  watching  the  sacks  of 
wheat  glide  down  the  long  chute — full  seventy 
feet — into  the  hold  of  the  Walmer  CastU. 
The  sturdy  little  Italians  who  carried  jie  bags  from  the 
warehouse  in  long  single  file  might  have  been  those  he  had 
superintended  in  the  wool-shed  in  Buenos  Aires  in  the  early 
stages  of  his  rise.  But  he  was  not  superintending  these. 
He  superintended  the  superintendents  of  those  who  super- 
intended them.  Tired  with  his  long  day  in  the  office,  he 
had  come  out  toward  the  end  of  the  afternoon  not  only  to 
get  a  breai..  of  the  fresh  air  off  the  Parana,  but  to  muse,  as 
he  often  did,  over  the  odd  spectacle  of  the  neglected,  half, 
forgotten  Spanish  settlement,  that  had  slumbered  for  two 
hundred  years,  waking  to  the  sense  of  its  destiny  as  a  fi>  ctor 
of  importance  .n  the  mordem  world.  Wheat  had  created 
Chicago  and  Winnipeg  Adam -like  from  the  ground,  but 
it  was  rejuvenating  Rosario  de  Santa  Fe  Faust-like,  with 
its  golden  elixir.  It  interested  the  man  who  called  himself 
Herbert  Strange — resident  manager  of  Stephens  and  Jarrott's 
great  wheat  business  in  this  outlet  of  the  great  wheat  prov- 
inces—  to  watch  the  impulse  by  which  Decrepitude  rose 
and  shook  itself  into  Youth  As  yet  the  process  had 
•carody  advanced  beyond  the  early  stages  of  surprise. 


'I' 


THE        IV   I    I.    D OLIVE 

The  dome  of  the  seventeenth-century  Renaissance  cathedral 
accustomed  for  five  or  six  generations  to  look  dovfn  on  low, 
one-storied  Spanish  dwellings  surrounding  patios  almost 
Moorish  in  their  privacy,  seemed  to  lift  itself  in  some 
astonishment  over  warehouses  and  flour.mills;  while  the 
minghng  of  its  sweet  old  bells  with  the  creaking  of  cranes 
and  the  shrieks  of  steam  was  like  that  chorus  of  the  cen- 
turies in  which  there  can  be  no  Mending  of  the  tones. 

Strange  felt  himself  so  much  ,  part  of  the  rejuvenescence 
that  the  incongruity  gave  him  no  mental  nor  ssthetic  shock. 
If  in  his  present  position  he  took  a  less  naive  pride  than  in 
that  of  three  years  ago,  he  was  conscious  none  the  less  of 
a  deep  satisfaction  in  having  his  part,  however  humble, 
in  the  exercise  of  the  world's  energies.  It  gave  him  a  sense 
of  oneness  with  the  great  primal  forces— with  the  river 
flowing  beneath  him,  two  hundred  miles  to  the  Atlantic, 
with  the  wheat  fields  stretching  behind  him  to  the  confines 
of  Brazil  and  the  foothills  of  the  Andes— to  be  a  moving 
element  in  this  galvanizing  of  new  life  into  the  dormant 
town,  in  this  finding  of  new  richei  in  the  waiting  earth. 
There  was,  too,  a  kind  of  companionship  in  the  steamers 
moored  to  the  red  buoys  in  the  river,  waiting  their  turns  to 
come  up  to  the  insufficient  quays  and  be  loaded.  They 
bore  such  names  as  Devonshire,  Ben  Nevis,  and  Princess 
of  Wales.  They  would  go  back  to  the  countries  where  the 
speech  was  English,  and  the  ideals  something  like  his  own. 
They  would  go  back,  above  all,  to  the  north,  to  the  north 
that  he  yearned  for  with  a  yearning  to  which  time  brought 
no  mitigation,  to  the  nor.h  which  was  coming  t.,  mean  for 
hin  vhat  heaven  means  to  a  soul  outside  the  scope  of  re- 
demption. 

It  was  only  on  occasions  that  this  sentiment  rot  pos- 

100 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


sssslon  of  him  strongly.    He  was  generally  able  to  keep 
it  down.    Hard  work,  assisted  by  his  natural  faculty  for 
singleness  of  purpose  and  concentration  of  attention,  kept 
him  from  lifting  the  eyes  of  his  heart  toward  the  unattain- 
able.   Moreover,  he  had  developed  an  enthusiasm,  genu- 
ine in  its  way,  for  the  land  of  his  adoption.   The  elemental 
hugeness  of  its  cha  racteristics— its  rivers  fifty  to  a  hundred 
miles  in  width,  its  farms  a  hundred  thousand  acres  in  ex- 
tent, its  sheep  herds  and  cattle  herds  thousands  to  the 
count — were  of  the  kind  to  appeal  to  an  ardent,  strenuous 
nature.     There  was  an  exhilarating  sense  of  discovery  in 
coming  thus  early  to  one  of  the  world's  richest  sources  of 
supply  at  a  minute  when  it  was  only  beginning  to  be  tapped. 
Out  in  the  Camp  there  was  an  impression  of  fecundity,  of 
eanh  and  animal  alike,  that  seem  to  relegate  poverty  and  its 
kindred  ills  to  a  past  that  would  never  return;  while  down 
in  the  Port  the  growth  of  the  city  went  on  like  the  burst- 
ing of  some  magic,  monstrous  flower.    It  was  impossible  not 
to  share  in  some  degree  the  pride  of  the  braggart  Argentine. 
It  was  difficult,  too,  not  to  love  a  country  in  which  the 
way  had  been  made  so  smooth  for  him.    While  he  knew 
that  he  brought  to  his  work  those  qualities  most  highly 
prized  by  men  of  business,  he  was  astonished  nevertheless 
at  the  rapidity  with  which  he  climbed.     Men  of  long  ex- 
perience in  the  country  had  been  more  than  once  passed 
over,  while  he  got  the  promotion  for  which  they  had  waited 
ten  and  fifteen  years.     He  admired  the  way  in  which  for 
the  most  part  they  concealed  their  chagrin,  but  now  and 
then  some  one  would  give  it  utterance. 

"Hello,  grafter!"  a  little  man  had  said  to  him,  on  the 
day  when  his  present  appointment  had  become  known 
among  his  colleagues. 

lOI 


ai' 


I 


h  . 

Tii 

;  V 

-  -  r-  - 
■  } 

f1 


THE       WILD        OLIVE 

The  speaker  was  coming  down  the  stairs  of  the  head 
office  in  the  Avenida  de  Mayo  as  Strange  was  going  up. 
His  name  was  Green,  and  though  he  had  been  twenty  years 
in  Argentine,  he  haled  from  Boston.  Short  and  stout,  with 
gray  hair,  a  gray  complexion,  a  gray  mustache,  and  wearing 
gray  flannels,  with  a  gray  felt  hat,  he  produced  a  general 
impression  of  neutrality.  Strange  would  have  gone  on  his 
way  unheeding  had  not  the  snarling  tone  arrested  him. 
He  had  ignored  this  sort  of  insult  more  than  once;  but 
he  thought  the  time  had  come  for  ending  it.  He  turned  on 
an  upper  step,  looking  down  on  the  ashy-faced  little  man, 
to  whom  he  had  once  been  subordinate  and  who  was  now 
subordinate  to  h-m. 

"Hello — what?"  he  asked,  with  an  air  pf  quiet  curi- 
osity. 

"I  said.  Hello,  grafter,"  Green  repeated,  with  bravado. 

"Why?" 

"I  guess  you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"I  don't.    What  is  it?    Out  with  it.     Fire  away." 

His  tranquil  air  of  strength  had  its  effect  in  overawing 
the  little  man,  though  the  latter  stood  firm  and  began  to 
explain. 

"A  grafter  is  a  fellow  with  an  underground  pull  for 
getting  hold  of  what  belongs  to  some  one  else.  At  least 
that's  what  I  understand  by  it — " 

"It's  very  mch  what  I  understand  by  it,  toa  But  have 
I  ever  got  hold  of  anything  of  yours  ?" 

"Yes,  confound  you  I  You've  taken  my  job — the  job 
I've  waited  for  ever  since  1885." 

Did  waiting  for  it  make  it  yours  ?    If  so,  you  would 
have  come  by  it  more  easily  than  I  did.     I  worked  for  it." 

"Worked  for  it  ?    Haven't  I  worked  for  it,  too  ?    Haven't 

102 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

I  been  in  this  office  for  going  on  seventeen  years  ?  Haven't 
I  done  what  they've  paid  me  for —  ?" 

"I  dare  say.  But  I've  done  twice  what  they've  paid  me 
for.  That's  the  secret  of  my  pull,  and  I  don't  mind  giving 
it  away.  You  mayn't  like  it — some  fellows  don't;  but  you'll 
admit  it  it's  a  pull  you  could  have  had,  as  well  as  I.  Look 
here,  Green,"  he  continued,  in  the  same  quiet  tone,  "I'm 
sorry  for  you.  If  I  were  in  your  place,  I  dare  say  I  should 
feel  as  you  do.  But  if  I  were  in  your  place,  I'll  be  handed 
if  I  shouldn't  make  myself  fie  to  get  out  of  it.  You're  not 
fit — and  that  s  the  only  reason  why  you  aren't  going  as 
resident  manager  to  Rosario.  You're  labelled  with  the 
year  '  1885,'  as  if  you  were  a  bottle  of  champagne— and 
you've  forgotten  that  .hampagne  is  a  wine  that  gets  out  of 
date.  You're  a  good  chap — quite  as  good  as  your  position 
— but  you' 'e  not  better  than  your  position — and  when  you 
are  you  won't  be  left  in  it  any  longer." 

In  speaking  in  this  way  the  man  who  had  been  Norrie 
Ford  was  consciously  doing  violence  to  himself.  His  natural 
tendency  was  to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  those  around 
him,  and  he  had  no  prompting  stronger  than  the  liking  to 
be  liked.  In  normal  conditions  he  was  always  glad  to  do 
a  kindness;  and  when  he  hurt  any  one's  feelings  he  hurt 
his  own  still  more.  Even  now,  though  he  felt  justified  in 
giving  little  Green  to  understand  his  intoleration  of  im- 
pertinence, he  was  obliged  to  fortify  himself  by  appealing 
to  his  creed  that  he  owed  no  consideration  to  any  one. 
Little  Green  was  protected  by  a  whole  world  organized  in 
his  defence;  Norrie  Ford  had  been  ruined  by  that  world, 
while  Herbert  Strange  had  been  bom  outside  it.  With  a 
temperament  like  that  of  a  quiet  mastiff,  he  was  forced  to 
Tim  himself  into  something  like  a  wolf. 


'|l 


■  m ' 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  little  Green's  account  of  the 
'^rief  meeting  on  the  stairs  presented  it  in  the  light  of  the 
castigation  he  had  administered  to  "that  confounded  up* 
start  from  nobody  knows  where,"  Strange  noticed  that  it 
made  the  clerks  in  the  office,  most  of  whom  had  been  his 
superiors  as  Green  had  been,  less  inclined  to  bark  at  his 
heels.  He  got  respect  from  them,  even  if  he  could  not 
win  popularity — and  from  popularity,  in  any  case,  he  had 
been  shut  out  from  the  first.  No  man  can  be  popular  who 
works  harder  than  anybody  else,  shuns  companionship, 
and  takes  his  rare  amusements  alone.  He  had  been  obliged 
to  do  all  three,  knowing  in  advance  that  it  would  create  for 
him  a  reputation  of  an  "ugly  brute"  in  quarters  whence  he 
would  have  been  glad  to  get  good-%  111. 

Finding  the  lack  of  popularity  a  safeguard  not  only 
against  prying  curiosity,  bur  against  inadvertent  self-be- 
trayal, it  was  with  some  misgiving  that  he  saw  his  hermit- 
like seclusion  threatened,  as  he  rose  higher  in  the  business 
and  consequently  in  the  social — scale.  In  the  English- 
speaking  colony  of  Buenos  Aires  the  one  advance  is  likely 
to  bring  about  the  other — especially  in  the  case  of  a  good- 
looking  young  man,  evidently  bound  to  make  his  mark, 
and  apparently  of  respectable  antecedents.  The  first  men- 
ace of  danger  had  come  from  Mr.  Jarrott  himself,  who  had 
unexpectedly  invited  his  intelligent  employee  to  lunch  with 
him  at  a  club,  in  order  to  talk  over  a  commission  with  which 
Strange  was  to  be  intrusted.  On  this  occasion  he  was  able 
to  stammer  his  way  out  of  the  invitation;  but  when  later, 
Mr.  Skinner,  the  second  partner,  made  a  like  propo^-  ,  he 
was  caught  without  an  excuse,  being  obliged,  with  some 
confusion  to  eat  his  meal  in  a  fashionable  restaurant  in 
the  Calle  Florida.  Oddly  enough,  both  his  refusal  on  th» 
104 


THE        H^  I  L   D        OLIVE 

one  occasion  and  his  acceptance  on  the  other  obtained  him 
credit  with  his  elders  and  superiors,  as  a  mudest  younp 
fellow,  too  shy  to  seize  an  honor,  and  embarrassed  when 
was  thrust  upon  him. 

To  Strange  both  occurrences  were  so  alarming  that  he 
put  himself  into  a  daily  attitude  of  defence,  fearing  similar 
attack  from  Mr.  Martin,  the  third  member  of  the  firm.  He, 
however,  made  no  sign;  and  the  bomb  v;as  thrown  by  hit 
wife.  It  came  in  the  shape  of  a  card  informing  Mr.  Strange 
th;r  on  a  certain  evening,  a  few  weeks  hcnc»,  Mrs.  Martin 
Would  be  at  home,  at  her  residence  in  Hurlingham.  It  was 
briefly  indicated  that  there  would  be  dancing,  and  he  was 
requested  to  answer  if  he  pleased.  The  general  infornution 
being  engraved,  his  particular  name  was  viritten  in  a  free 
bold  hand,  which  he  took  to  be  that  of  one  of  the  daugh- 
ters of  the  family. 

Though  he  did  his  best  to  keep  his  head,  there  was  every- 
thing in  that  bit  of  pasteboard  to  throw  him  into  a  state  of 
something  like  excitement.  Not  only  were  the  doors  of  the 
world  Norrie  Ford  hsd  known  being  thrown  open  to  Her- 
bert Strange,  but  the  one  was  being  moved  by  the  same 
thrill — the  thrill  of  the  feminine — that  had  been  so  power> 
ful  with  the  other.  He  was  growing  more  susceptible  to  it 
in  proportion  as  it  seemed  forbidden — ^just  as  a  man  in  a 
desert  island  may  dream  of  the  delights  of  wine 

He  had  looked  at  the  Misses  Martin,  but  had  never  sup 
posed  they  could  fling  a  glance  at  him.  He  had  seen  them 
at  the  public  gath^iing-places — in  their  box  at  the  opera, 
in  the  grand  stand  at  the  Jockey  Club,  in  their  carriage  at 
Palermo  or  in  the  Florida.  They  were  handsome  girls- 
blonde  and  lashing — whose  New  York  air  was  in  pleasant 
contrast  to  the  graceful  indolence  or  stolid  repose  of  the 

IDS 


i 


mmi 


^■^W-J.v.iS, 


Iji 


THE        fV  I   L   D        O   L   I  y  E 

<Urk-eyed  ladies  of  the  Argentine,  too  heavily  bejewelled 
and  too  consciously  dresied  according  to  the  Paris  mode. 
Strange  said  (  Misses  Martin,  as  he  had  said  of  Wild 

Olive,  that  they  were  "not  his  type  of  girl  "—but  they  were 
girls— they  were  American  girls- they  were  bright,  lively 
girls,  representing  the  very  poetry  and  romance  of  the 
world  that  had  turned  him  out. 

It  was  a  foregone  conclusion  that  he  should  decline  their 
invitation,  and  he  did  so;  but  the  mere  occasion  for  doing 
it  gave  his  mind  an  impetus  in  the  direction  in  which  he 
had  been  able  hitherto  to  check  it.  He  began  again  to 
think  of  the  feminine,  to  dream  of  it,  to  long  for  it.  For 
the  time  being  it  was  the  feminine  in  the  .ibstract— without 
features  or  personality.  As  far  as  it  took  form  at  all  it 
was  with  the  dainty,  nestling  seductiveness  that  belonged 
to  what  he  called  his  "type"- a  charm  that  had  nothing  in 
common  with  the  forest  grace  of  the  Wild  Olive  or  the 
dash  of  the  Misses  Martin. 

Now  and  then  he  caught  glimpses  of  it,  but  it  was  gen- 
erally out  of  reach.  Soft  eyes,  of  the  velvety  kind  that 
smote  him  most  de'.iciously,  would  lilt  their  light  upon  him 
through  the  casement  of  some  old  Spanish  residence,  oi 
from  the  daily  procession  of  carriages  moving  slowly  along 
the  palm  avenue  at  Palermo  or  in  the  Florida.  When  this 
happened  he  would  have  a  day  or  two  of  acting  foolishly, 
in  the  manner  of  the  Bonarense  bucks.  Kc  -vould  stand 
for  hours  of  his  leisure  time— if  he  could  get  away  from  the 
office  at  the  minute  of  the  fashionable  promenade— on  the 
pavement  of  the  Florida,  or  under  a  palm-tree  in  the  park, 
waiting  for  a  particular  carriage  to  drive  round  again  and 
again  and  again,  while  he  returned  the  sweet  gaze  which 
the  manners  of  the  coun'ry  allow  an  unknown  lady  to  be- 
io6 


THE        fr   I  L   D        OLIVE 

ttow,  ai  a  rose  ii  allowed  to  shed  its  beauty.  This  being 
done,  he  would  go  away,  and  realize  that  he  had  been 
making  himself  ridiculous. 

Once  the  incarnation  of  his  dreams  came  so  near  him 
that  it  was  actually  within  his  grasp.  The  tree  of  the 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil  dangled  its  fruit  right  before 
his  eyes  in  the  person  of  Mademoiselle  Hortense,  who  sang 
at  the  Cafe  Florian,  while  the  clients,  of  whom  he  wai 
sometimes  one,  smoked  and  partook  of  refreshments.  She 
was  just  the  little  round,  soft,  dimpling,  downy  bundle  of 
youth  and  love  he  so  often  saw  in  his  mind's  eye,  and  so 
rarely  in  r-  .lity,  and  he  was  ready  to  fall  in  love  with  any 
one.  The  mutual  acquaintance  was  formed,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  over  the  piece  of  gold  hi  threw  into  the  tambourine, 
from  which,  as  she  passed  from  table  to  table,  she  was 
able  to  measure  her  hearer's  appreciation  of  art.  Those 
were  the  daj's  in  which  he  first  began  to  be  able  <.o  dress  well, 
and  to  have  a  little  money  to  throw  away.  For  ten  days  or 
a  fortnight  he  threw  it  away  in  considerable  sums,  being 
either  in  love  or  in  a  condition  like  it.  He  respected 
Mademoiselle  Hortense,  and  had  sympathy  with  her  in  her 
trials.  She  was  desperately  sick  of  her  roving  life  as  he  was 
of  Mrs.  Wilson's  boarding-houje.  She  was  as  eager  to 
marry  >nd  settle  down  as  he  to  have  a  home.  The  subject 
was  not  exactly  broached  between  them,  but  they  certainly 
talked  round  it.  The  decisive  moment  came  on  the  night 
when  her  troupe  was  to  sail  for  Montevideo.  In  the  most 
delicate  way  in  the  world  she  gave  him  to  understand  that 
she  would  remain  even  at  the  eleventh  hour  if  he  were  to 
say  the  word.  She  might  be  on  the  deck,  she  might  be  in 
her  berth,  and  it  still  would  not  be  too  late.  He  left  her 
at  nine,  and  she  was  lo  sail  at  eleven.  During  the  two 
107 


ami 


THE        IV   I  L   D        OLIVE 

intervening  hours  he  paced  the  town,  a  prey  to  hopes,  fears, 
temptations,  distresses.  To  do  him  justice,  it  was  her 
broken  heart  he  thought  of,  not  his  own.  To  him  she  was 
only  one  of  many  possibiHties;  to  her,  he  was  the  chance 
of  a  lifetime.  She  might  never,  he  said  to  himself,  "fall 
into  the  clutches  of  so  decent  a  chap  again."  If  was  a  wild 
wrestle  between  common  sense  and  folly— so  wild  that  he 
was  relieved  to  hear  a  clock  strike  eleven,  and  to  know  she 
must  have  sailed. 

The  incident  sobered  him  by  showing  him  how  near  and 
how  easily  he  could  come  to  a  certain  form  of  madness. 
After  that  he  worked  harder  than  ever,  and  in  the  course 
of  time  got  his  appointment  at  Rosario.  It  was  a  great 
"rise,"  not  only  in  position  and  salary,  but  also  in  expecta- 
tions. Mr.  Martin  had  been  resident  manager  at  Rosario 
before  he  v,  is  taken  into  partnership — so  who  could  tell 
what  might  happen  next? 

The  first  intimation  of  the  change  was  conveyed  by  Mr. 
Jarrott  in  a  manner  characteristically  casual  Strange, 
being  Lhojt  to  leave  the  private  office  one  day,  after  a  con- 
sult::ti(>n  on  som2  matter  of  secondary  import,  was  already 
halfw:;y  to  the  door,  while  Mr.  Jarrott  luniself  was  stooping 
to  rephcc  a  book  in  the  revo'ving  bookcase  that  stood 
beside  his  chair. 

'  13}  tho-way,"  he  said,  without  looking  up,  "Jenkins  is 
going  t.:  represent  the  house  in  Nevir  York.  We  think  you 
had  better  t:.ke  his  place  at  Rosario." 

Stn  nf.e  drew  himsell  up  to  attention.  He  knew  the  old 
man  lil;eJ  lus  subordinates  to  receive  momentous  orders  as 
if  they  cn-e  in  the  routine  of  the  day. 

"'Very  v.eil,  sir,"  he  said,  quietly,  betraying  no  sign  of  his 
excitement  v,'it!iin.     Raising  himself.   Mr     Jarrott  looked 
ic8 


THE 


WILD        OLIVE 


about  uneasily,  as  if  trying  to  find  something  else  to  say, 
while  Strange  began  again  to  move  toward  the  door. 

"And  Mrs.  Jarrott — " 

Strange  stopped  so  still  that  the  senior  partner  paused 
with  that  air  of  gentlemanly  awkwardness — something  like 
an  Englishman's — which  he  took  on  when  he  had  firmly 
made  up  his  mind. 

"Mrs.  Jarrott,"  he  continued,  "begs  me  to  say  she  hopes 
you  will — a — come  and  lunch  with  us  on  Sunday  next." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  the  young  man 
searched  wildly  for  some  formula  that  would  soften  his 
point-blank  refusal. 

"Mrs.  Jarrott  is  awfully  kind,"  he  began  at  last  to 
stammer,  "  but  if  she  would  excuse  me — " 

"She  will  expect  you  on  Sunday  at  half-past  twelve." 

The  words  were  uttered  with  that  barely  perceptible 
emphasis  which,  as  the  whole  house  knew,  implied  that  all 
had  been  said. 


In  the  end  the  luncheon  was  no  formidable  affair.  Except 
for  his  fear,  lest  it  should  be  the  thin  edge  of  the  wedge  of 
that  American  social  life  which  it  would  be  perilous  for  him 
to  enter,  he  would  have  enjoyed  this  peep  into  a  comfortable 
home,  after  his  long  exile  from  anything  of  the  sort.  In 
building  his  house  at  Palermo,  Mr.  Jarrott  had  kepi,  in 
the  outlines  at  least,  to  the  old  Spanish  style  of  architecture, 
as  being  most  suited  to  the  history  and  climate  of  the 
country,  though  the  wealthy  Argentines  themselves  pre- 
ferred to  have  their  residences  look — like  their  dresses, 
jewels,  and  carriages — as  if  they  haJ  come  from  Paris. 
The  interior  patio  was  spacious,  shaded  with  vines,  nd  gay 
with  flowers,  while  birds,  caged  or  free,  were  singing  every- 
8  109 


li'. 


where.  The  rooms  surrounding  it  were  airy  and  cool,  and 
adapted  to  American  standards  of  comfort.  In  the  dining- 
room,  mahogany,  damask,  crystal,  and  silver  gave  Strange 
an  odd  feeling  of  having  been  wafted  back  to  the  days  and 
usages  of  the  boyhood  of  Norrie  Ford. 

As  the  only  guest  he  found  himself  seated  on  Mrs.  Jarrott's 
right,  and  opposite  Miss  Queenie  Jarrott,  the  sister  of  the 
head  of  the  house.  The  host,  as  his  manner  wis,  spoke 
little.  Miss  Jarrott,  too,  only  looked  at  Strange  across  the 
table,  smiling  at  him  with  her  large,  thin,  upward-curving 
smile,  comic  in  spite  of  itself,  and  with  a  certain  pathos, 
since  she  meant  it  to  be  charged  with  sentiment.  Over  the 
party  at  table,  over  the  elderly  men-servants  who  waited  on 
them,  over  the  room,  over  the  patio,  there  was— except  for 
the  singing  of  the  birds  —the  hush  that  belongs  to  a  house- 
hold that  never  hears  the  noise  or  the  laughter  of  youth. 

Mrs.  Jarrott  took  the  brunt  of  the  conversation  on  her- 
self. She  was  a  beautiful  woman,  faded  now  with  the  pal- 
lor that  comes  to  northern  people  after  a  long  residence  in 
the  sub-tropical  south,  and  languid  from  the  same  cause. 
Her  handsome  hazel  eyes  looked  as  if  they  had  been  used 
to  weeping,  though  they  conserved  a  brightness  that  im- 
parted animation  to  her  face.  A  white  frill  round  her 
throat  gave  the  only  relief  to  her  plain  black  dress,  but 
she  wore  many  handsome  rings,  after  the  Argentine  fash- 
ion, as  well  as  a  brooch  and  earrings  of  black  pearls. 

She  began  by  asking  her  guest  if  it  was  true,  as  Mr. 
Jarrott  had  informed  her,  that  he  was  not  one  of  the  Stranges 
of  Virginia.  She  thought  he  must  be.  It  would  be  so  odd 
if  he  wasn't.  There  were  Stranges  in  Virginia,  and  had 
been  for  a  great  many  generations.  In  fact,  her  own 
family,  the  Colfaxes,  had  almost  intermarried  with  them, 
no 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


When  she  said  almost,  she  meant  that  they  had  inter- 
married with  the  same  families — the  Yorkes,  the  Ends- 
leighs,  and  the  Poles.  If  Mr.  Strange  did  belong  to  the 
Virginia  Strangcs,  she  was  sure  they  could  find  relatives  in 
common.  Oh,  he  didn't  ?  Well,  it  seemed  really  as  if  he 
must.  If  Mr.  Strange  cam;-  from  New  York,  he  probably 
knew  the  Wrenns.  Her  own  mother  was  a  Wrenn.  She 
had  been  Miss  Wrenn  before  she  was  Mrs.  Colfax.  He 
thought  he  had  heard  jf  them  ?  Oh,  probably.  They 
were  well-known  people — at  least  they  had  been  in  the  old 
days — though  New  York  was  so  very  much  changed.  She 
rarely  went  back  there  now,  the  voyage  was  so  long,  but 
when  she  did  she  was  quite  bewildered.  Her  own  family 
used  to  be  so  conservative,  keeping  to  a  little  circle  of  rela- 
tives and  friends  that  rarely  went  north  of  Boston  or  south 
of  Philadelphia;  but  now  when  she  made  them  a  visit  she 
found  them  surrounded  by  a  lot  of  people  who  had  never 
been  heard  of  before.  She  thought  it  a  pity  that  in  a 
country  where  there  were  so  few  distinctions,  those  which 
existed  shouldn't  be  observed. 

It  was  a  relief  to  Strange  when  the  sweet,  languorous 
monologue,  punctuated  from  time  to  time  by  a  response 
from  himself,  or  an  interjectory  remark  from  one  of  the 
others,  came  to  an  end,  and  they  proceeded  to  the  patio 
for  coffee. 

It  was  served  in  a  comer  shaded  by  flowering  vines,  and 
presided  over  by  a  huge  green  and  gray  parrot  in  a  cage. 
The  host  and  hostess  being  denied  this  form  of  refresh- 
ment, took  advantage  of  the  moment  to  stroll  arm  in  arm 
around  the  court,  leaving  Miss  Jarrott  in  tete-a-tete  with 
Strange.  He  noticed  that  as  this  lady  led  the  vpay  her 
figure  was  as  lithe  as  a  young  girl's  and  her  walk  singularly 
III 


THE        WILD 


OLIVE 


i 


graceful.  "No  one  is  ever  old  with  a  carriage  like  yours," 
Miss  Jarrott  had  been  told,  and  she  believed  it.  She 
dressed  and  talked  according  to  her  figure,  and,  had  it 
not  been  for  features  too  heavily  accentuated  in  nose  and 
chin,  she  might  have  produced  an  impression  of  eternal 
spring-tide.  As  it  was,  the  comic  papers  would  have  found 
her  cruelly  easy  to  caricature,  had  she  been  a  statesman. 
The  parrot  screamed  at  her  approach,  croaking  out  an  air, 
slighdy  off  the  key: 

"Up  and  down  the  ba-by  goes, 
Turning  out  its  lit-tle  .  .  ." 

Tempted  to  lapse  into  prose,  it  proceeded  to  cry: 

"Wa-al,  Polly,  how  are  you  to-day?  Wa-al,  pretty  well 
for  an  old  gal,"  after  which  there  was  a  minute  of  inarticu- 
late grumbling.  When  coffee  was  poured,  and  the  young 
man's  cigarette  alight,  Miss  Jarrott  seized  the  opportunity 
which  her  sister-in-law's  soft  murmur  at  the  table  had  not 
allowed  her. 

"It's  really  funny  you  should  be  Mr.  Strange,  because 
I've  known  a  young  lady  of  the  same  name.  That  is,  I 
haven't  known  her  exactly,  but  I've  known  about  her." 

Not  to  show  his  irritation  at  the  renewal  of  the  subject, 
Strange  presumed  she  was  one  of  the  Stranges  of  Virginia, 
with  right  and  title  to  be  so  called. 

"She  is  and  she  isn't,"  Miss  Jarrot  replied.  "I  know 
you'll  think  it  funny  to  hear  me  speak  so;  but  I  can't  ex- 
plain. I'm  like  that.  I  can't  always  explain.  I  say  lots 
and  lots  of  things  that  people  just  have  to  interpret  for  them- 
selves. It's  funny  I  should  be  like  that,  isn't  it  ?  I  won- 
der why  ?  Can  you  tell  me  why  ?  And  this  Miss  Strange 
lU 


THE        JV  I  L   D        OLIVE 

— I  never  knew  her  really — not  really—but  I  feel  as  if  I 
had.  I  always  feel  that  way  about  friends  of  friends  of 
mine.  I  feel  as  if  they  were  my  friends,  too.  I'd  go  through 
fire  and  water  for  them.  Of  course  that's  just  an  expres- 
sion, but  you  know  what  I  mean,  now  don't  you .'" 

Having  been  assured  on  that  point,  she  continued: 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  find  us  a  very  quiet  household,  Mr. 
Strange,  but  we're  in  mourning.  That  is,  Mrs.  Jarrott  is  in 
mourning;  and  when  those  dear  to  me  are  in  mourning  I 
always  feel  that  I'm  in  mourning,  too.  I'm  like  that.  I 
never  can  a  .  why  it  is,  but — I'm  like  that.  My  sister-in- 
law  has  jus',  lost  her  sister-in-law.  Of  course  that's  no  re- 
lation to  me,  is  it  ?  And  yet  I  feel  as  if  it  was.  I've  always 
called  Mrs.  Colfax  my  sister-in-law,  and  I've  taught  her 
little  girl  to  ^.ill  me  Aunt  Queenie.  They  lived  here  once. 
Mr.  Colfax  \as  Mrs.  Jarrott's  brother  and  Mr.  Jarrott's 
partner.  The  little  girl  was  born  here.  It  was  a  great 
loss  to  my  brother  when  Mr.  Colfax  died.  Mrs.  Colfax 
went  back  to  New  York  and  married  again.  That  was  a 
blow,  too;  so  we  haven't  been  on  the  same  friendly  terms 
of  late  years.  But  now  I  hope  it  will  be  different.  I'm 
like  that.  I  always  hope.  It's  funny,  isn't  it  ?  No  matter 
what  happens,  I  always  think  there's  a  silver  lining  to  the 
cloud.  Now,  why  <!hould  I  be  like  that .?  Why  shouldn't 
I  despair,  like  other  people  ?" 

Strange  ventured  the  suggestion  that  she  had  been  born 
with  a  joyous  temperament. 

"Wa-ai,  pretty  well  for  an  old  gal!"  screamed  the  par- 
rot, ending  in  a  croaking  laugh. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  Miss  Jarrott  mused.  'Every- 
body is  different,  don't  you  think  ?  And  yet  it  sometimes 
seems  to  me  that  no  one  can  be  so  different  as  I  am.  I 
113 


■ill 


I 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

always  hope  and  hope;  and  you  see,  in  this  case  ''ve  been 
justilicd.    We're  going  to  have  our  little  girl  again.     She's 
coming  to  make  us  a  long,  long  visit.     Her  name  is  Evelyn; 
and  once  we  get  her  here  we  hope  she'll  stay.     Who  knows  ? 
There  may  be  something  to  keep  her  here.     You  never  can 
tell  about  that.     She's  an  orphan,  with  no  one  in  the  world 
but  a  stepfather,  and  he's  blind.     So  who  has  a  better  right 
to  her?     I  always  think  that  people  who  have  a  right  to 
other  people  should  have  them,  don't  you  ?     Besides,  he's 
going  to  Wiesbaden,  to  a  great  oculist  there,  so  that  Evelyn 
will  come  to  us  as  her  natural  protectors.     She's  nearly 
eighteen  now,  and  she  wasn't  eight  when  she  left  us.     Oh 
yes,  of  course  we've  seen  her  since  then — when  we've  gone 
to  New  York— but  that  hasn't  been  often.     She  will  have 
changed;    she'll  have  her  hair  up,  and  be  wearing  her 
dresses  long;    but  I  shall  know  her.     Oh,  you  couldn't 
deceive  me.     I  never  forget  a  face.     I'm  like  that.     No, 
nor  names  either.     I  should  remember  you,  Mr.  Strange, 
if  I  met  you  fifty  years  from  now.     I  noticed  you  when  you 
first  began  to  work  for  Stephens  and  Jarrott.     So  did  my 
sister-in-l.iw,  but  I  noticed  you  first.     We've  often  spoken 
of  you,  especially  after  we  knew  your  name  was  Strange. 
It  seemed  to  us  so  strange.     That's  a  pun,  isn't  it  ?     I  often 
make  them.     We  both  thought  you  were  like  what  Henry 
— that's  Mr.  Jarrott's  oldest  son — might  have  grown  to,  if 
he  had   been  spared  to  us.     We've  had  a  great  deal  of 
sorrow—     Oh,  a  great  deal!     It's  weaned  my  sister-in-law 
away   from   the   world   altogether.     She's   like   that.     My 
brother,   too — he   isn't  the   same   man.     So  when   Evelyn 
comes  we  hope  we  shall  see  you  often,  Mr.  Strange.     You 
must  begin  to  look  on  this  house  as  your  second  home. 
Indeed,  you  must.     It'll  please  my  brother.     I've  never 
114 


THE 


WILD 


OLIVE 


heard  him  speak  of  any  young  man  as  he's  spoken  of  you. 
I  think  he  sees  the  likeness  to  Henry.  That  'II  be  next 
year  when  Evelyn  comes.  No,  I'm  sorry  to  say  it  isn't  to 
be  this  year.  She  can't  leave  her  stepfather  till  he  goes  to 
Wiesbaden.  Then  she'll  be  free.  Some  one  else  is  going 
to  Wiesbaden  with  him.  And  isn't  it  funny,  it's  the  same 
yiisa  Strange — the  lady  we  were  speaking  of  just  now." 


It  was  already  some  months  since  those  words  had  been 
spoken,  so  that  he  had  ceased  to  dwell  on  them;  but  at  first 
they  haunted  him  like  a  snatch  of  an  air  that  passes  through 
the  mental  hearing,  and  yet  eludes  the  attempt  to  bring  it 
to  the  lips.  Even  if  he  had  had  the  synthetic  imagination 
that  easily  puts  two  and  two  together,  he  had  not  the  leisure, 
in  the  excitement  of  his  removal  to  Rosario  and  the  under- 
talring  of  his  duties  there,  to  follow  up  a  set  of  clews  that 
were  scarcely  more  palpable  than  odors.  Nevertheless  the 
words  came  back  to  him  from  time  to  time,  and  always 
with  the  same  odd  suggestion  of  a  meaning  special — per- 
haps fatal — to  himself.  They  came  back  to  him  at  this 
minute,  as  he  stood  watching  the  loading  of  the  Jf'almer 
Castle  and  breathing  the  fresh  air  off  the  Paran.i.  But  if 
they  threatened  danger,  it  was  a  danger  that  disappeared 
the  instant  he  turned  and  faced  it — leaving  nothing  behind 
but  the  evanescent  memory  of  a  memory,  such  as  will 
sometimes  reiv.ain  from  a  dream  about  a  dream. 


'till 


!  I'll  - 


I'll  li 


'»■; 


(   1' 


;     I 


i  < 


!  i ,  ■ 


IX 


|NOTHER  year  had  passed  before  he  learned 
what  Miss  Jarrott's  words  were  to  mean  to 
him.     Knowledge  came  then   as  a   flash  of 
revelation  in  whirH  he  saw  himself  and  his 
_  iSii  limitations  clearly  defined.     His  success  at 

Rosario  had  been  such  that  he  had  begun  to  think  himself 
master  of  Fate;  but  Fate  in  half  an  hour  laughingly  showed 
herself  mistress  of  him. 

He  had  been  called  to  Buenos  Aires  on  an  errand  of 
piety  and  affection — to  bury  Monsieur  Durand.  The  poor 
old  unfrocked  priest  had  been  gathered  to  his  rest,  taking 
his  secret  with  him — penitent,  reconciled  to  the  Church,  and 
fortified  with  the  Last  Sacraments.  Strange  slipped  a 
crucifix  between  the  wax-like  fingers,  and  followed — ^the 
only  mourner— to  the  Recoleta  Cemetery. 

Having  ordered  a  cross  to  mark  the  grave,  he  remained  in 
town  a  day  or  two  longer  to  attend  to  a  small  matter  which 
for  some  time  past  he  had  at  heart  and  on  his  conscience. 
It  was  now  three  or  four  years  since  he  had  set  aside  the 
cum  lent  him  by  the  girl  for  whom  he  had  still  no  other 
name  than  that  of  the  Wild  Olive.  He  had  invested  it,  and 
reinvested  it,  till  it  had  become  a  fund  of  some  importance. 
Putting  it  now  into  the  safest  American  securities,  he  placed 
them  in  the  hands  of  a  firm  of  English  solicitors  in  Buenos 
Aires,  with  directions  not  only  to  invest  the  interest  from 
ii6 


THE        fF  I  L   D        O   L   I   F  E 


time  to  time,  but — in  the  event  of  his  death — to  follow 
certain  sealed  instructions  with  which  also  he  intrusted 
them.  From  the  few  hints  he  was  able  to  give  them  in 
this  way  he  had  little  doubt  but  that  her  identity  could  be 
discovered,  and  the  loan  returned. 

In  taking  these  steps  he  could  not  but  see  that  what  would 
be  feasible  in  case  of  his  death  must  be  equally  feasible  now; 
but  he  had  two  reasons  for  not  attempting  it.  The  first 
was  definite  and  prudential.  Ho  was  unwilling  to  risk 
anything  that  could  connect  him  ever  so  indirectly  with  the 
life  of  Norrie  I'ord.  Secondly,  he  was  conscious  of  a  vague 
shrinking  from  the  payment  of  this  debt  otherwise  than 
face  to  face.  Apart  from  considerations  of  safety,  he  was 
unwilling  to  resoit  to  the  commonplace  channels  of  busi- 
ness as  long  as  there  was  a  possibility  of  taking  another 
way. 

Not  that  he  was  eager  to  see  her  again.  He  had  ques- 
tioned himself  on  that  point,  and  knew  she  had  faded  from 
his  memory.  Except  for  a  vision  of  fugitive  dark  eyes — eyes 
of  Beatri'-e  Cenci — he  could  scarcely  recall  her  features. 
Eventf  during  the  last  six  years  had  pressed  so  fast  on  each 
other,  life  had  been  so  full,  so  ardent,  each  minute  had  been 
so  insistent  that  he  should  give  it  his  whole  soul's  attention, 
that  the  antecedent  past  was  gone  like  the  passion  no  effort 
can  recapture.  As  far  as  he  could  see  her  face  at  all,  it 
looked  at  him  out  of  an  abyss  of  oblivion  to  which  his 
mind  found  it  as  hard  to  travel  back  as  a  man's  imagina- 
tion to  his  infancy. 

It  was  with  some  shame  that  he  admitted  this.  She  had 
saved  him — in  a  sense,  she  had  created  him.  By  her  sor- 
cery she  had  raised  up  Herbert  Strange  out  of  the  ruin  of 
Norrie  Ford,  and  endowed  him  with  young  vigor.  He 
i'7 


Ift 


THE        tV  I  L  D        OLIVE 


owed  h>!r  everything.  He  had  told  her  so.  He  had  vowed 
*<i9  life  to  her.  It  was  to  be  hers  to  dispose  of,  even  at  her 
caprice.  It  was  what  he  had  meant  in  uttering  his  parting 
words  to  her.  But,  now,  that  he  had  the  power  in  some 
degree,  he  was  doing  nothing  to  fulfil  his  promise.  He  had 
even  lost  the  desire  to  make  the  promise  good. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  find  excuses  for  himself.  Thejr 
were  ready-made  to  his  hand.  There  was  nothing  practical 
that  he  could  do  except  what  he  had  done  about  the  money. 
Life  was  not  over  yet;  and  some  day  the  chance  might 
come  to  prove  himself  as  high-souled  as  he  should  like  to 
be.  If  he  could  only  have  been  surer  that  he  was  inwardly 
lincere  he  would  not  have  been  uneasy  over  his  inactivity. 

Then,  within  a  few  minutes,  the  thing  happened  that 
placed  him  in  a  new  attitude,  not  only  toward  the  Wild 
Olive,  but  toward  all  lif". 

Business  with  the  head  o£fice  detained  him  in  Buenos 
Aires  longer  than  he  had  expected.  It  was  business  of  a 
few  hours  at  a  time,  leaving  him  leisure  for  the  theatres  and 
the  opera,  for  strollings  at  Palermo,  anrl  for  standing  stock- 
still,  watching  the  procession  of  carriages  in  the  Florida  or 
the  Avenida  Sarmiento,  in  the  good  Bonarense  fashion. 
He  was  always  alone,  for  he  had  acquired  the  art — none 
too  easy — of  taking  pleasure  without  sharing  it. 

So  he  found  himself,  one  bright  afternoon,  watching  the 
races  from  the  hwn  of  the  Hipodromo  of  the  Jockey  Qub. 
He  was  fond  of  horses,  and  he  liked  a  good  rnce.  When  he 
went  to  the  Hipodromo  it  was  for  the  sporting,  not  the 
social,  aspect  of  the  affair.  Nevertheless,  as  he  strolled 
about,  he  watched  for  that  occasional  velvety  glance  that 
gave  him  pleasure,  and  amused  himself  with  the  types 
seated  around  him,  or  crossing  his  path — heavy,  swarthy 
Ii8 


THE 


ff^  I  L   D        OLIVE 


Argentines,  looking  like  Italian  laborers  grown  rich — their 
heavy,  swarthy  wives,  come  out  to  display  all  the  jewels 
that  could  be  conveniently  worn  at  once — pretty,  dark- 
eyed  girls,  already  with  a  fatal  tendency  to  •mbonpoint, 
wearing  diamonds  in  their  ears  and  round  their  necks  as 
an  added  glory  to  costumes  fresh  from  the  rue  de  la  Paix — 
grave  little  boys,  in  gloves  and  patent-leather  boots,  seated 
without  budging  by  their  mammas,  sucking  the  tops  of 
their  canes  in  imitation  of  their  elder  brothers,  who  wan- 
dered about  in  pairs  or  groups,  all  of  the  latest  cut,  eying 
the  ladies  but  rarely  addressing  them — ta^'  Englishmen, 
who  looked  taller  than  they  were  in  contrast  to  the  pudgy 
race  around  them,  as  the  Germans  looked  lighter  and  the 
French  more  blond — Italian  opera  singers,  Parisian  ac- 
tresses, Spanish  dancers,  music-hall  soubrettes — diplomats 
of  all  nations — clerks  out  for  a  holiday — sailors  on  shore — 
tourists  come  to  profit  by  a  spectacle  that  has  no  equal  in 
the  southern  world,  and  little  of  the  kind  that  is  more 
amusing  in  the  north. 

As  Strange's  glance  roamed  about  in  search  of  a  response 
he  not  infrequently  received  it,  for  he  was  a  handsome  fel- 
low by  this  time — tall,  well  dressed,  and  well  set  up,  his 
trim,  fair  beard  emphasizing  the  clear-cut  regularity  of  his 
profile,  without  concealing  the  kindliness  that  played  about 
the  mouth.  A  little  gray  on  the  temples,  as  well  as  a  few 
tiny  wrinkles  of  concentration  about  the  eyes,  gave  him  an 
air  of  maturity  beyond  his  age  of  thirty-two.  The  Anglo- 
Saxon  influence  in  the  Argentine  is  English — from  which 
cause  he  had  insensibly  taken  on  an  English  air,  as  his 
speech  had  acquired  something  of  the  English  intonation. 
He  was  often  told  that  he  might  pass  for  an  Englishman 
anywhere,  and  he  was  glad  to  think  so.  It  was  a  reason 
1 19 


|i| 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

the  lets  for  being  identified  as  Norrie  Ford.  It  sometimet 
Itemed  to  him  that  he  could,  in  case  of  necessity,  go  back 
to  North  America,  to  New  York,  to  Greenport,  or  even  to 
the  little  county  town  where  he  had  been  tried  and  sen- 
tenced to  death,  and  run  no  risk  of  detection. 

The  staring  of  other  men  first  directed  his  attention  tow- 
ard her.  She  was  sitting  slightly  detached  from  the  party 
of  Americans  to  whom  she  clearly  belonged,  and  in  which 
the  Misses  Martin  formed  the  merrily  noisy  centre.  Though 
dressed  in  w^  te,  that  fell  softly  about  her  feet,  and  trained 
on  the  grass  sidewise  from  her  chair,  her  black  cuffs,  col- 
lar, and  hat  suggested  the  lasi  days  of  mourning.  Whether 
or  not  she  was  aware  of  the  gaze  of  the  passers-by  it  was 
difficult  to  guess,  for  her  air  of  demure  simplicity  was  proof 
against  penetration.  She  was  one  of  thoie  dainty  little 
creatures  who  seem  to  see  best  with  the  eyes  downcast; 
but  when  she  lifted  her  dark  lashes,  the  darker  from  con- 
trast with  the  golden  hair,  to  sweep  heaven  and  earth  in  a 
blue  glance  that  belonged  less  to  scrutiny  than  to  prayer, 
the  effort  sf^med  to  create  a  shyness  causing  the  lids,  dusky 
as  some  flowers  are,  to  drop  heavily  into  place  again,  like 
curtains  over  a  masterpiece.  It  was  so  that  they  rose  a.ij 
fell  before  Strange,  her  eyes  meeting  his  in  a  look  that  no 
Argentine  beauty  could  ever  have  bestowed,  in  that  it  was 
free  from  coquetry  or  intention,  and  wholly  accidental. 

It  was  in  fact  this  accidental  element,  with  its  lack  of 
preparation,  that  gave  the  electric  thrill  to  both.  That  is 
to  say,  in  Strange  the  thrill  was  electric;  as  for  her,  she 
gave  no  sign  further  than  that  she  opened  her  parasol  and 
raised  it  to  shade  her  face.  Having  done  this  she  con- 
tinued to  sit  in  undisturbed  composure,  though  she  prob- 
120 


THE        ir   I   L    D 


OLIVE 


ably  uw  through  her  fringing  lashes  that  the  tall,  good- 
looking  young  man  still  stood  spellbound,  not  twenty  yard* 
away. 

Strange,  on  his  part,  was  aware  of  the  unconvcntionality 
of  his  behavior,  though  he  was  incapable  of  moving  on.  He 
felt  the  occasion  to  be  one  which  justified  him  in  transcend- 
ing the  established  rules  of  courtesy.  He  was  face  to  face 
with  the  being  who  met  not  only  all  the  I'-ngings  of  his 
earthly  love,  but  the  higher,  purer  aspirations  that  accom- 
panied it.  It  was  not,  so  he  said  to  himself,  a  chance 
meeting;  it  was  one  which  the  ages  had  prepared,  and  led 
him  up  to.  She  was  "his  type  of  girl"  only  in  so  far  as 
she  distilled  the  essence  of  his  gross  imaginings  and  gave 
them  in  their  exquisite  reality.  So,  too,  she  was  the  in- 
carnation of  his  dreams  only  because  he  had  )carned  for 
son-.cthing  mundane  of  which  she  was  the  celestial,  and  the 
true,  embodiment.  He  had  that  sense  of  the  insufficiency 
of  his  own  powers  of  preconception  which  comes  to  a  blind 
man  when  he  gets  his  sight  and  sees  a  rose. 

He  was  so  lost  in  the  wonder  of  the  vision  that  he  had 
to  be  awakened  as  from  a  trance  when  Miss  Jarrott,  very 
young  and  graceful,  crossed  the  lawn  and  held  out  her 
hi  .id. 

"Mr.  Strange!  I  didn't  know  you  were  in  town.  My 
brother  never  mentioned  it.  He's  like  that.  He  never 
tells.  If  I  didn't  guess  his  thoughts,  I  shouldn't  know 
anything.  But  I  always  guess  people's  thoughts.  Why 
do  you  suppose  it  is  ?  I  don't  know.  Do  you  ?  When  I 
tee  people,  I  can  tell  what  they're  thinking  of  as  well  as 
anything.  I'm  like  that;  but  I  can't  tell  how  I  do  it.  I 
saw  you  from  over  there,  and  I  knew  you  were  thinking 
abouL  Evelyn.     Now  weren't  you  ?    Oh,  you  can't  deceive 

121 


m 


THE        IV  I   L   D        OLIVE 


me.  You  were  thinking  of  her  just  as  plain — I  Well,  now 
you  must  come  and  be  introduced." 

He  felt  that  he  stumbled  blindly  as  he  crossed  the  bit  of 
greensward  in  Miss  Jarrott's  wake;  and  yet  he  kept  his 
head  sufficiently  to  know  that  he  was  breaking  his  rules, 
contradicting  his  past,  and  putting  himself  in  peril.  In 
being  presented  to  the  Misses  Martin  and  their  group,  he 
was  actually  entering  that  Organized  Society  to  which 
Herbert  Strange  had  no  attachments,  and  in  which  he  could 
thrust  down  no  roots.  By  sheer  force  of  will  he  might  keep 
a  footing  there,  as  a  plant  that  cannot  strike  into  the  soil 
may  cling  to  a  bare  rock.  All  the  same  the  attempt  would 
be  dangerous,  and  might  easily  lead  to  his  being  swept  away. 

It  was  in  full  consciousness,  therefore,  of  the  revolution 
in  his  life  that  he  bowed  before  the  Misses  Martin,  who 
received  him  coldly.  He  had  not  come  to  their  dance,  nor 
"called,"  nor  shown  them  any  of  the  civilities  they  were 
accustomed  to  look  for  from  young  men.  Turning  their 
attention  at  once  to  the  other  gentlemen  about  them,  they 
made  no  effort  to  detain  him  as  Miss  Jarrott  led  him  to 
Miss  Colfax. 

Here  the  introduction  would  have  been  disappointing  if 
the  greatness  of  the  event  had  not  been  independent  of  the 
details  with  which  it  happened.  Strange  was  not  in  a  con- 
dition to  notice  them,  any  more  than  a  soul  can  heed  the 
formalities  with  which  it  is  admitted  into  heaven.  Nearly 
all  his  impressions  were  subconscious — to  be  brought  to  the 
surface  and  dwelt  en  after  he  went  away.  It  was  thus  he 
recorded  the  facts  relating  to  the  gold  tint — the  teint  dore — 
of  her  complexion,  the  cuil  of  her  lashes  that  seemed  to  him 
deep  chestnut  rather  than  quite  black,  as  well  as  the  little 
tremor  about  her  mouth,  which  was  pensive  in  repose,  and 

122 


\  i 


THE        W  I  L   T>        OLIVE 


ifint. 

ese  p  ;inir 
enchar 


He 

■f  at  a 
ingly, 


yet  smiled  with  the  unreserved  sweetne«': 
could  not  be  said  to  have  taken  in  any   li  th 
glance;   but  they  came  to  him  later,  s\ 
in  the  solitude  of  his  room  at  the  Phoeni 

What  actually  passed  would  have  been  commonplace  in 
itself  had  it  not  been  for  what  lay  behind.  Miss  Colfax  ac- 
knowledged the  introduction  with  a  fleeting  smile  and  a 
quick  lifting  of  the  curtains  of  her  eyes.  He  did  not  need 
that  glimpse  to  know  that  they  were  blue,  but  he  got  a  throb 
of  bliss  from  it,  as  does  one  from  the  gleam  of  a  sunlit  sea. 
To  her  answers  to  the  questions  he  asked  as  to  when  she 
had  arrived,  how  she  liked  the  Argentine,  and  what  she 
thought  of  the  Hipodromo,  he  listened  less  than  to  the 
silvery  timbre  of  her  voice.  Mere  words  were  as  unim- 
portant to  those  first  minutes  of  subtle  ecstasy  as  to  an  old 
Italian  opera.  The  music  was  the  thing,  and  for  that  he 
had  become  one  enraptured  auditory  nerve. 

There  was  no  chair  for  him,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to 
carry  on  the  conversation  standing.  He  did  not  object  to 
this,  as  it  would  give  him  an  excuse  for  passing  on.  That  he 
was  eager  to  go,  to  be  alone,  to  think,  to  feel,  to  suffer,  to 
realize,  to  trace  step  by  step  the  minutes  of  the  day  till  they 
had  led  him  to  the  supreme  instant  when  his  eyes  had 
fallen  on  her,  to  take  the  succeeding  seconds  one  by  one 
and  extract  the  significance  from  each,  was  proof  of  the 
power  of  the  spell  that  had  been  cast  upon  him. 

"And  isn't  it  funny,  Evie,  dear,"  Miss  Jarrott  began, 
just  as  he  was  about  to  take  his  leave,  "that  Mr.  Strange's 
name  should  be — " 

"Yes,  I've  been  thinking  about  that,"  Miss  Colfax  fluted, 
with  that  pretty  way  she  had  of  speaking  with  little  move- 
ment of  the  lips. 

123 


r;i.r 


'ii 


ii  .III 


THE        IV  I  L   D        OLIVE 

But  he  was  gone.  He  was  gone  with  those  broken 
sentences  ringing  in  his  ears — casual  and  yet  haunting — 
meaningless  and  yet  more  than  pregnant — creeping  through 
the  magic  music  of  the  afternoon,  as  a  death-motive  breathes 
in  a  love-chant. 


X 


|FTER  a  night  of  little  sleep  and  much  think- 
ing, he  determined  to  listen  to  nothing  but 
the  love-chant.  He  came  to  this  decision, 
not  in  the  recklessness  of  self-will,  but  after 
due  consideration  of  his  rights.  It  was  true 
that,  in  biblical  phrase,  necessity  was  laid  upon  him.  He 
could  no  more  shut  his  ears  against  that  entrancing  song 
than  he  could  shut  his  eyes  against  the  daylight.  This  was 
not,  however,  the  argument  that  he  found  most  cogent,  as 
it  was  not  the  impulse  from  which  he  meant  to  act.  If  he 
could  make  this  girl  his  wife  it  would  be  something  more 
than  a  case  of  getting  his  own  way;  it  would  be  an  instance 
— probably  the  highest  instance — of  the  assertion  of  him- 
self against  a  world  organized  to  destroy  him.  He  could 
not  enter  that  world  and  form  a  part  of  it;  but  at  least  he 
could  carry  off  a  wife  from  it,  as  a  lion  may  leap  into  a 
sheepfold  and  snatch  a  lamb. 

It  was  in  this  light  that  he  viewed  the  matter  when  he 
accepted  Miss  Jarrott's  invitations — now  to  lunch,  now  to 
dinner,  now  to  a  seat  in  their  box  at  the  opera  or  in  their 
carriage  in  the  park — during  the  rest  of  the  time  he  re- 
mained in  town.  It  became  clear  to  him  that  the  family 
viewed  with  approval  the  attachment  that  had  sprung  up 
between  Miss  Colfax  and  himself,  and  were  helping  it  to 
a  happy  ending.  He  even  became  aware  that  they  were 
9  I2S 


•iM 


^'tl 


WILD        OLIVE 


It 


m 


iT  H  E 

growing  fond  of  him-making  the  discovery  with  a  queer 
Lsation  of  surprise.     It  was  a  thmg  so  new  m  his  expen- 
ence  that  he  would  have  treated  the  notion  a.  .idiculous 
had  it  not  been  forced  upon  him.    Women  had  shown  h.m 
Lors;    one  lonely  old  man.  now  lying  -  '^e  Recoleta 
Cemetery,  had  yearned  over  him;    but  a  household  had 
SvTI^e'ned  itsVart  to  him  before.     And  yet  there  could 
be  no  other  reading  of  the  present  situation.     He  began  to 
think   that  Mr.    Jarrott  was   delaymg  his   d^P^'n^^^^/^ 
Rosario  purposely,  to  keep  him  near.     It  --  ""^  ^^^ 
into  the  old  man's  bearing  toward  him  there  had  crept 
something  that  might  almost  be  called  paternal,  so  that 
Tr  business  discussions  were  much  like  those  between 
father  and  son.    Mrs.  Jarrott  advanced  as  far  out  of  the 
circle  of  her  griefs  to  welcome  him  as  it  was  possible  for 
her  languorous  spirit  to  emerge.    Mis,   Jarrott    friendly 
f^m  the  first,  attached  him  to  the  wheels  of  her  social 
chariot  with  an  air  of  affectionate  possessioii. 

It  required  no  great  amount  of  perspicuity  to  see  that 
the  three  elders  would  be  glad  if  Miss  Colfax  and  he  were 
to  "  make  a  match  of  it,"  and  why.  It  would  be  >'"""'- 
and  a  means  they  could  approve-of  keeping  their  little 
eirl  among  them.  As  matters  stood,  she  was  only  a  visitor 
who  spoke  of  her  flight  back  to  New  York  as  a  matter  of 

'"Tonly  came,"  she  lisped  to  Strange,  as  they  sat  one 
day,  under  the  parrot's  chaperonage,  in  the  shady  comer  of 
the  patia-"I  only  came  because  when  dear  mamma  .  led 
there  was  nothing  else  for  me  to  do.  Everythmg  happened 
.o  unfortunately,  do  you  see  ?  Mamma  died,  and  my  step- 
father went  blind,  and  really  I  had  no  home.  Of  course 
that  doesn't  matter  so  much  while  I'm  in  moum.ng-I 
126 


E 


IK] 

&P^ 

^^^^^^^P^^^^^^^^^^^^H 

Wr'^'' 

ll 

h" 

M^^ 

v^^^^^^^^^B 

1    \ 

Tm 

iBI 

^K^>« 

^^ 

Ktt^ 

1^4 

^^ 

liii^ 

THE       WILD        O   L  I  F  E 

mean,  not  having  a  home — but  I  simply  must  go  back  to 
New  York  next  autumn,  in  order  to  'come  out.'" 

"Aren't  you  'out'  enough  already?" 

"Do  you  ice?"  the  began  to  explain,  with  the  quaint 
sir  of  practical  wiidom  he  adored  in  her,  "I'm  not  out  at 
all — and  I'm  nearly  nineteen.  Dear  mamma  fretted  over 
it  at  it  was — and  if  she  knew  it  hadn't  been  done  yet — 
Well,  something  must  be  managed,  but  I  don't  know  what. 
It  isn't  as  if  Miriam  could  do  anything  about  it,  though 
•he's  a  great  deal  older  than  I  am,  and  has  seen  a  lot  of 
social  life  at  Washington  and  in  England.  But  she's  out 
of  the  question.  Dear  mamma  would  never  have  allowed 
it.    And  she's  no  relation  to  me,  besides." 

The  question,  "Who  is  Miriam  ?"  was  on  his  lips,  but  he 
checked  it  in  time.  He  checked  all  que&tions  as  to  her 
relatives  and  friends  whom  he  did  not  know  already.  He 
was  purposely  making  ignorance  his  bliss  as  long  as  pos- 
sible, in  the  hope  that  Lefore  enlightenment  could  be  forced 
upon  him  it  would  be  too  late  for  any  one  to  recede. 

"Couldn't  they  do  it  for  you  here  V  he  asked,  when  he 
was  sure  of  what  he  meant  to  say.  "I  know  the  Miss 
Martins—" 

"Carrie  and  Ethell  Oh,  welll  That  isn't  quite  the 
same  thing.  /  couldn't  come  out  in  a  place  like  Buenoe 
Aires — or  anywhere,  except  New  York." 

"But  when  you've  been  through  it  all,  you'll  come  back 
here,  won't  you  f" 

His  eyes  sought  hen,  but  he  saw  only  the  curtains  of 
the  lids— tho;:  lids  with  the  curious  dusk  on  them,  which 
reminded  him  of  the  petals  of  certain  pansies. 

"That  'II — depend,"  she  said,  after  a  minute's  hesitation. 

"  It  'II  depend — on  what  V  he  persisted,  softly. 
127 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

Before  she  could  answer  the  parrot  interrupted,  scream- 
ing out  a  bit  of  doggerel  in  its  hoarse  staccato. 

"Oh,  that  bird!'  the  girl  cried,  springing  up.  "I  do 
wish  some  one  would  wring  its  neck." 

He  got  no  nearer  to  his  point  that  day,  and  perhaps  he 
was  not  eager  to.  The  present  situation,  with  its  excite- 
ments and  uncertainties,  was  too  blissful  to  bring  to  a 
sudden  end.  Besides,  he  was  obliged  to  go  through  some 
further  rehearsing  of  the  creed  adopted  in  the  dawn  on  Lake 
Champlain  before  his  self-justification  could  be  complete. 
It  was  not  that  he  was  questioning  his  right  to  act;  it  was 
only  that  he  needed  to  strengthen  the  chain  of  arguments 
by  which  his  action  must  be  supported — against  himself. 
Within  his  own  heart  there  was  something  that  pleaded 
against  the  breaking  off  of  this  tender  sprig  of  the  true  olive 
to  graft  it  on  the  wild,  in  addition  to  which  the  attitude  of 
the  Jarrott  family  disconcerted  him.  It  was  one  thing  to 
push  his  rights  against  a  world  ready  to  deny  them,  but  it 
was  quite  another  to  take  advantage  of  a  trusting  affection 
that  came  more  than  half-way  to  meet  him.  His  mind 
refused  to  imagine  what  they  would  do  if  they  could  know 
that  behind  the  origin  of  Herbert  Strange  there  lay  the 
history  of  Norrie  Ford.  After  all,  he  was  net  concerned 
with  them,  he  asserted  inwardly,  but  with  himself.  They 
were  intrenched  within  a  world  able  to  take  care  of  itself; 
while  there  was  no  power  whatever  to  protect  him,  once 
he  made  a  mistake. 

So  every  night,  as  he  sat  in  his  cheerless  hotel  room,  he 
reviewed  his  arguments,  testing  them  one  by  one,  strength- 
ening the  weak  spots  according  to  his  lights,  and  weighing 
the  for  and  against  with  all  the  nicety  he  could  command. 
On  the  one  side  were  love,  happiness,  position,  a  home, 
128 


THE        fr  I  L   D        OLIVE 


children  probably,  and  whatever  else  the  normal,  healthy 
nature  craves;  on  the  other,  loneliness,  abnegation,  cruci- 
fixion, slow  torture,  and  slower  death.  ^Vas  it  just  to  him- 
■elf  to  choose  the  latter,  simply  because  human  law  had 
made  a  mistake  and  put  him  outside  the  human  race? 
The  answer  was  obvious  enough;  but  while  his  intelligence 
made  it  promptly,  something  else  within  him — some  illog- 
ical emotion — seemed  to  lag  behind  with  its  corroboration. 

This  hesitation  of  his  entire  being  to  respond  to  the  bugle- 
call  of  his  need  gave  to  his  wooing  a  certain  irregularity — 
an  advance  and  recession  like  that  of  the  tide.  At  the  very 
instant  when  the  words  of  declaration  were  trembling  on 
his  lips  this  doubt  about  himself  would  check  him.  There 
were  minutes — moonlit  minutes,  in  the  patio,  when  the 
birds  were  hushed,  and  the  scent  of  flowers  heavy,  and  the 
yoices  of  the  older  ones  stole  from  some  lighted  room  like 
a  soft,  human  obligato  to  the  melody  of  the  night— minutes 
when  he  felt  that  to  his  "I  love  you!"  h  ;  would  come  as 
surely  as  the  echo  to  the  sound;  and  yet  he  shrank  frons 
saying  it.  Their  talk  would  drift  near  to  it,  dally  with  it, 
flash  about  it,  play  attack  and  defence  across  it,  and  drift 
away  again,  leaving  the  essential  thing  unspoken.  The 
■kill  with  which  she  fenced  with  this  most  fragile  of  all 
topics,  never  losing  her  guard,  never  missing  her  thrust  or 
parry,  and  yet  never  inflicting  anything  like  a  wound,  filled 
him  with  a  sort  of  rapture.  It  united  the  innocence  of  a 
child  to  the  cleverness  of  a  woman  of  the  world,  giving  an 
exquisite  piquancy  to  both.  In  this  young  creature,  who 
could  have  had  no  experience  of  anything  of  the  kind,  it  was 
Ae  very  essence  of  the  feminine. 

By  dint  of  vigil  and  meditation  he  drew  the  conclusion  that 
kit  inner  hesitancy  sprang  fron.  the  fact  that  he  was  not 
129 


i 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

being  honest  with  himself.  He  was  shirking  knowledge  that 
he  ought  to  face.  Up  to  the  present  he  had  done  his  duty 
in  that  respect,  and  done  it  pluckily.  He  had  not  balked 
at  the  statement  that  his  rSle  in  the  world  was  that  of  an 
impostor — though  an  impostor  of  the  world's  own  creation, 
It  had  been  part  of  the  task  forced  upon  him  "to  deceive 
men  under  their  very  noses,"  as  he  had  expressed  it  to  him- 
self that  night  on  Lake  Champlain.  Whatever  vengeance, 
therefore,  discovery  might  call  upon  him,  he  could  suffer 
nothing  in  the  loss  of  self-respect.  He  would  be  always 
supported  by  his  inner  approval.  Remorse  would  be  as 
alien  to  him  as  to  Prometheus  on  the  i  <  <.'c. 

In  the  present  situation  he  was  less  -i^re  of  that,  and  there 
he  put  his  finger  on  his  weakness.  Seeing  shadows  flitting 
in  the  background  he  dodged  them,  instead  of  calling  them 
out  into  daylight.  He  was  counting  on  happy  chances  in 
dealing  with  the  unforeseen,  when  all  his  moves  should  be 
based  on  the  precise  information  of  a  general. 

Therefore,  when,  in  the  corner  of  the  patio,  the  next 
opportunity  arose  for  asking  the  question,  "Who  is  Miri- 
am ?"  he  brought  it  out  boldly. 

"She's  a  darling."  The  unexpected  reply  was  accom- 
panied by  a  sudden  lifting  of  th«  lashes  for  a  raptuious 
look  and  one  of  the  flashing  smiles. 

"That's  high  praise — from  you." 

"She  deserves  it — from  any  one!" 

"Why?  What  for?  What  has  she  done  to  win  your 
enthusiasm  when  other  people  find  it  so  hard  ?" 

"It  isn't  so  hard — only  some  people  go  the  wrong  way  to 
work  about  it,  do  you  see  ?" 

She  leaned   back   in   her  wicker  chair,   fanning  herself 
slowly,  and  smiling  at  him  with  that  air  of  mingled  inno- 
130 


THE        fr  I   L   D        OLIVE 


cence  and  provocation  which  he  found  the  most  captivating 
of  her  charms. 

"Do  I  ?"  he  was  tempted  to  ask. 

"Do  you  f    Now,  let  me  think.     Really,  I  never  noticed. 
You'd  have  to  begin  all  over  again — if  you  ever  did  begin — 
before  I  could  venture  an  opinion." 
This  was  pretty,  but  it  was  not  keeping  to  the  point. 
"Evidently  Miriam  knows  how  to  do  it,  and  when  I  see 
her  I  shall  ask  her." 

"I  wish  you  could  see  her.  You'd  adore  her.  She'd  be 
just  your  style." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?  Is  she  so  beautiful? 
What  is  she  like  ?" 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  tell  you  what  she's  like.  You'd  have  to 
see  her  for  yourself.  No,  I  don't  think  I  should  call  her 
beautiful,  though  some  people  do.  She's  awfully  attrac- 
tive, anyhow." 

"Attractive?    In  what  way?" 

"Oh,  in  a  lot  of  ways.  She  isn't  like  anybody  else.  She's 
in  a  class  by  herself.  In  fact,  she  has  to  be,  poor 
thing." 

"Why  should  she  be  poor  thing,  with  so  much  to  her 
credit  in  the  way  of  assets  ?" 

"Do  you  see  ? — that's  something  I  can't  tell  you.  There's 
a  sort  of  mystery  about  her.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  under- 
stand it  very  well  myself.  I  only  know  that  dear  mamma 
didn't  feel  that  she  could  take  her  out,  in  New  York,  ex- 
cept among  our  very  most  intimate  friends,  where  it  didn't 
matter.  And  yet  when  Lady  Bonchurch  took  her  to  Wash- 
ington, she  got  a  lot  of  offers— I  know  that  for  a  fact — and 
in  England,  too." 
"I  seem  to  be  getting  deeper  in,"  Strange  smiled,  with 

«3' 


l:' 


THE        fr  I  L   D        OLIVE 


M 


\  *■ 


the  necessary  air  of  speaking  carelessly.  "Who  is  Lady 
Bonchurch  ?" 

"Don't  you  know?  Why,  I  thought  you  knew  every- 
thing. She  was  the  wife  of  the  British  Ambassador.  They 
took  a  house  at  Grccnport  that  year  because  they  were 
afraid  about  Lord  Bonchurch's  lungs.  It  didn't  do  any 
good,  though.  He  had  to  give  up  his  post  the  next  winter, 
and  not  lung  after  that  he  died.  I  don't  think  air  is  much 
good  for  people's  lungs,  do  you  ?  I  know  it  wasn't  any 
help  to  dear  mamma.  We  had  all  those  tedious  years  at 
Greenport,  and  in  the  end — but  that's  how  wc  came  to 
know  Lady  Bonchurch,  and  she  took  a  great  fancy  to 
Miriam.  She  said  it  was  a  shame  a  girl  like  that  shouldn't 
have  a  chance,  and  so  it  was.  Mamma  thought  she  inter- 
fered, and  I  suppose  she  did.  Still,  you  can't  blame 
her  much,  when  she  had  no  children  of  her  own,  can 
you?" 

"I  shouldn't  want  to  blame  her  if  she  gave  Miriam  her 
chance." 

"That's  what  I've  always  said.  And  if  Miriam  had 
only  wanted  to,  she  could  have  been — well,  almost  any- 
body. She  had  offers  and  offers  in  Washington,  and  in 
England  there  was  a  Sir  Somebody-or-other  who  asked  her 
two  or  three  times  over.  He  married  an  actress  in  the  end 
— and  dear  mamma  thought  Miriam  must  be  crazy  not  to 
have  taken  him  while  he  was  to  be  had.  Dear  mamma 
said  it  would  have  been  such  a  good  thing  for  me  to  have 
some  one  like  Miriam — who  was  under  obligations  to  us, 
do  you  see  ? — in  a  good  social  position  abroad." 

"But  Miriam  didn't  see  it  in  that  way?" 

"She  didn't  see  it  in  any  way.  She's  terribly  exasperat- 
ing in  some  respects,  although  she's  such  a  dear.  Poor 
13a 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


mimma  uicd  to  be  very  tried  about  her — and  she  lo  ill — 
and  my  itepfather  going  blind — and  everything.  If  Mi- 
riam had  only  been  in  a  good  social  position  abroad  it 
would  have  been  a  place  for  me  to  go — instead  of  having 
no  home — like  this." 

There  was  something  so  touching  in  her  manner  that  he 
found  it  difficult  not  to  offer  her  a  home  there  and  then; 
but  the  shadows  >vcre  marching  our  into  daylight,  and  he 
must  watch  the  procession  to  the  end. 

"It  seems  to  have  been  very  inconsiderate  of  Mi.-iam," 
he  said.     "  But  why  do  you  suppose  she  acted  so  ? ' 

"Dear  mamma  thought  she  was  in  love  with  some  one — 
some  one  we  didn't  know  anything  about — but  I  never  be- 
lieved that.  In  the  first  place,  she  didn't  know  any  one 
we  didn't  know  anything  about — not  before  she  went  to 
Washington  with  Lady  Bonchurch.  And  besides,  she 
couldn't  be  in  love  with  any  one  without  my  knowing  h, 
now  could  she !" 

"I  suppose  not;  unless  she  made  up  her  mind  the 
wouldn't  tell  you." 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  want  her  to  tell  me.  I  should  see  it 
for  myself.  She  wouldn't  tell  me,  in  any  case — not  till 
things  had  gone  so  far  that — but  1  never  noticed  the  least 
sign  of  it,  do  you  see  ?  and  I've  a  pretty  sharp  eye  for  that 
sort  of  thing  at  all  times.  There  was  just  one  thing.  Dear 
mamma  used  to  say  that  for  a  while  she  used  to  do  a  good 
deal  of  moping  in  a  little  studio  she  had,  up  in  the  hilU 
near  our  house — but  you  couldn't  tell  anything  from  that. 
I've  gone  and  moped  there  myself  when  I've  felt  I  wanted 
a  good  cry — and  I  wasn't  in  love  with  any  one." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  during  which  he  tat  graTC, 
motionless,  reflecting.    Now  and  then  he  placed  hif  e»- 
'33 


f. 


n 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


'•  i 


tinguished  cigarette  to  his  lips,  with  the  mechanical  mo- 
tion of  a  man  forgetful  of  time  and  place  and  circum- 
stance. 

"Well,  what  are  you  thinking  about?"  she  inquired, 
when  the  pause  had  lasted  long  enough.  He  seemed  to 
wake  with  a  start. 

"Oh — I — I  don't  know.  I  rather  fancy  I  was  thinking 
about — about  this  Miss — after  all,  you  haven't  given  me 
any  name  but  Miriam." 

"Strange,  her  name  is.     The  same  as  yours." 

"Oh  ?    You've  never  told  me  that." 

"Aunt  Queenie  has,  though.  But  you  always  seem  to 
thufiSe  so  when  it's  mentioned  that  I've  let  it  alone.  I  don't 
blame  you,  either;  for  if  there's  one  thing  more  tedious 
than  another,  it's  having  people  for  ever  fussing  about  your 
nzme.  There  was  a  girl  at  our  school  whose  name  was 
Fidgett — Jessie  Fidgett — a  nice,  quiet  girl,  as  placid  as  a 
church — but  I  do  assure  you,  it  got  to  be  so  tiresome — well, 
you  know  how  it  would  be — and  so  I  decided  I  wouldn't 
say  anything  about  Miriam's  name  to  you,  nor  about  yours 
to  her.  Goodness  knows,  there  must  be  lots  of  Stranges  in 
the  world — ^just  as  much  as  Jarrotts." 

"So  that — after  all — her  name  was  Miriam  Strange." 

"It  was,  and  is,  and  always  will  be — if  she  goes  on  like 
this,"  Miss  Colfax  rejoined,  not  noticing  that  he  had  spoken 
half-musingly  to  himself.  "She  was  a  ward  of  my  step- 
father's till  she  came  of  age,"  she  added,  in  an  explanatory 
tone.  "She's  a  sort  of  Canadian — or  half  a  Canadian — or 
something — I  never  could  quite  make  out  what.  Anyhow, 
she's  a  dear.  She's  gone  now  with  my  stepfather  to  Wies- 
baden, about  his  eyes — and  you  can't  think  what  a  relief 
to  me  it  is.  If  she  hadn't,  I  might  have  had  to  go  myself— 
134 


THE 


WILD        OLIVE 


and  at  my  age — with  all  I've  got  to  think  about — and  my 
coming  out —    Well,  you  can  see  how  it  would  be." 

She  lifted  such  sweet  blue  eyes  upon  him  that  he  would 
have  seen  anything  she  wanted  him  to  see,  if  he  had  not  been 
determined  to  push  his  inquiries  until  there  was  nothing 
left  for  him  to  learn. 

"Were  you  fond  of  him  ? — your  stepfather  ?" 

"Of  course — in  a  way.  But  everything  was  so  unfort- 
unate. I  know  dear  mamma  thought  she  was  acting  for 
the  best  when  she  married  him;  and  if  he  hadn't  begun  to 
go  blind  almost  immediately —  But  he  was  very  kind  to 
mamma,  when  she  had  to  go  to  the  Adirondacks  for  her 
health.  That  was  very  soon  after  she  returned  to  New 
York  from  here — when  papa  died.  But  she  was  so  lonely 
in  the  Adirondacks — and  he  was  a  judge — a  Mr.  Wayne — 
with  a  good  poistion — and  naturally  she  never  dreamed 
he  had  anything  the  matter  with  his  eyes — it  isn't  the  sort 
of  thing  you'd  ever  think  of  asking  about  beforehand — and 
so  it  all  happened  that  way,  do  you  see  ?" 

He  did  see.  He  could  have  wished  not  to  see  so  clearly. 
He  saw  with  a  light  that  dazzled  him.  Any  step  would  be 
hazardous  now,  except  one  in  retreat;  though  he  was 
careful  to  explain  to  himself  that  night  that  it  was  retreat  for 
reconnoitre,  and  not  for  running  away.  The  mere  fact  that 
the  Wild  Olive  had  taken  on  personality,  with  a  place  of 
some  sort  in  the  world,  brought  her  near  to  him  agam; 
while  the  knowledge  that  he  bore  her  name — possibly  her 
father's  name — seemed  to  make  hir.  the  creation  of  her 
magic  to  an  even  greater  degree  than  he  had  felt  hitherto. 
He  could  perceive,  too,  that  by  living  out  the  suggestions 
she  had  made  to  him  in  the  cabin — the  Argentine — Stephens 
and  Jarrott — "the  very  good  firm  to  work  for" — he  had  never 
'35 


.  'liM 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

got  beyond  her  influence,  no  more  than  the  oak-tree  gets 
beyond  the  acom  that  has  been  its  seed.  The  perception 
of  these  things  would  have  been  enough  to  puzzle  a  mind 
not  easily  at  home  in  the  complex,  even  if  the  reintroducdon 
of  Judge  Wayne  had  not  confused  him  further. 

It  was  not  astonishing,  therefore,  that  he  was  seized  with 
a  sudden  longing  to  get  away — a  longing  for  space  and 
solitude,  for  the  pampas  and  the  rivers,  and,  above  all, 
for  work.  In  the  free  air  his  spirit  would  throw  o(F  its 
oppression  of  discomfort,  while  in  a  daily  routine  of  oc- 
cupation he  often  found  that  difficulties  solved  them- 
selves. 

"If  you  think  that  this  business  of  Kent's  can  get  along 
without  me  now,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Jarrott,  in  the  private 
office,  next  morning,  "perhaps  I  had  better  be  getting  back 
to  Rosario." 

Not  a  muscle  moved  in  the  old  man's  long,  wooden  face, 
bat  the  gray-blue  eyes  threw  Strange  a  curious  look. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  f"  he  asked,  after  a  slight  pause. 

Strange  smiled,  with  an  embarrassment  that  did  not 
escape  observation. 

"I've  been  away  longer  than  I  expected — a  good  deal 
longer.  Things  must  want  looking  after,  I  suppose.  Green 
can  take  my  place  for  a  while,  but — 

"Green  is  doing  very  well — better  than  I  thought  he 
could.     He  seems  to  have  taken  a  new  start,  that  man." 

"I'm  not  used  to  loafing,  sir.  If  there's  no  particular 
leason  for  my  staying  on  here — " 

Mr.  Jarrott  fitted  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together,  and 
answered  slowly. 

"There's  no  particular  reason — ^just  now.    We've  bcoi 
■peaking  of— of— a — certain  changes —   But  it's  too  soon— " 
136 


THE        ff"  I  L  D        OLIVE 

"Of  course,  sir,  I  don't  want  to  urge  my  private  with** 
against — " 

"Quito  so;  quite  so;  I  understand  that  A — a — priTatt 
wishes,  you  say  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;   entirely  private." 

The  gray-blue  eyes  rested  on  him  in  a  gaze  meant  to  be 
■ninquisitive  and  non-committal,  but  which,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  expressed  something  from  which  Sirange  turned 
his  own  glance  away. 

"Very  well;   I'd  go,"  the  old  man  said,  quietly. 

Strange  left  his  cards  that  afternoon  at  the  house  just 
when  he  knew  Mrs.  Jarrott  would  be  resting  and  Miss  Jar- 
rott  driving  with  Miss  Colfax.  At  seven  he  took  the  night 
boat  up  the  Plata  to  the  Parana. 


XI 


IVIE,  what  do  you  think  made  Mr.  Strange 
rush  away  like  that  f  Your  uncle  says  he 
didn't  have  to — that  he  might  just  as  well 
have  stayed  in  town." 

"I'm   sure    I    don't    know,"   was    Evie's 

truthful  response,  as  she  flitted  about  the  dining-room 
table  arranging  the  flowers  before  luncheon. 

"Your  uncle  thinks  you  do,"  Mrs.  Jarrott  said,  leaning 
languidly  back  in  an  arm-chair.  Her  tone  and  manner  im- 
plied that  the  matter  had  nothing  to  do  with  her,  though 
she  was  willing  to  speak  of  it.  This  was  as  far  as  she  could 
come  to  showing  an  interest  in  anything  outside  herself 
since  the  boys  died.  She  would  not  have  brought  up  the 
subject  now  if  the  girl's  pallor  during  the  last  few  days  had 
not  made  them  uneasy. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea,"  Miss  Colfax  declared.  "I 
was  just  as  much  surprised  as  you  were,  Aunt  Helen. 

"Your  uncle  thinks  you  must  have  said  something  to 
him-" 

"I  didn't.  I  didn't  say  anything  to  him  whatever. 
Why  should  I  ?     He's  nothing  to  me." 

"Of  course  he's  nothing  to  you,  if  you're  engaged  to 
Billy  Merrow." 

Miss  Colfax  leaned  across  the  table,  taking  a  longer  time 
dian  necessary  to  give  its  value  to  a  certain  rose. 
138 


THE        ff^  I  L   D        OLIVE 

"I'm  not  engaged  to  him  now,"  she  said,  as  if  after  re- 
flection— "not  in  my  own  mind,  that  is." 

"But  you  are  in  his,  I  suppose." 

"Well,  I  can't  help  that,  can  I  ?" 

"Not  unless  you  write  and  tell  him  it's  all  over." 

Miss  Colfax  stood  still,  a  large  red  flower  raised  in 
protestation. 

"That  would  be  the  cruellest  thing  I  ever  heard  of,"  she 
exclaimed,  with  conviction.  "I  don't  see  how  you  can 
bear  to  make  the  suggestion." 

"Then  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"I  needn't  do  anything  just  yet.  There's  no  huriy — till 
I  get  back  to  New  York." 

"Do  you  mean  to  let  him  go  on  thinking — ?" 

"He'd  much  rather.  Whenever  I  tell  him,  it  will  be  too 
soon  for  him.  There's  no  reason  why  he  should  know 
earlier  than  he  wants  to." 

"But  is  that  honor,  dear'" 

"How  can  I  tell?"  At  so  unreasonable  a  question  the 
blue  eyes  clouded  with  threatening  tears.  "I  can't  go  into 
all  those  fine  points,  Aunt  Helen,  do  you  see  ?  I've  just 
got  to  do  what's  right." 

Mrs.  Jarrot  rose  with  an  air  of  helplessness.  She  loved 
her  brother's  dau,';htcr  tenderly  enough,  but  she  admitted 
to  herself  that  she  did  not  understand  young  girls.  Having 
borne  only  sons,  she  had  never  been  railed  upon  to  struggle 
witl'  the  baffling. 

"I  hope  you're  not  going  to  tell  any  one,  Aunt  Helen," 
Evie  bejr",f.J,  as  Mrs.  Jarrott  seemed  about  to  leave  the 
room.  "I  shouldn't  want  Uncle  Jarrott  to  know,  or  Aunt 
Queenie,  either." 

"I  shall  certainly  spare  them,"  Mrs.  Jarrott  said,  with 
'39 


xu 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

what  for  her  was  asperity.  "They  would  be  surprised,  »o 
tay  the  least,  after  the  encouragement  you  gave  Mr.  Strange." 

"I  didn't  give  it— he  took  it.     I  couldn't  stop  him." 

"Did  you  want  to?" 

"I  thought  of  it— sometimes— till  I  gave  up  being  en- 
.  gaged  to  Billy." 

"And  having  passed  that  mental  crisis,  I  suppose  it  didn't 

matter." 

"Well,  the  mental  crisis,  as  you  call  it,  left  me  free.    I 
iha'n't  have  to  reproach  myself—" 

"No;  Mr.  Merrow  will  do  that  for  you." 
"Of  course  he  will.  I  expect  him  to.  It  would  be  very 
queer  if  he  didn't.  I  shall  have  a  dreadful  time  making 
him  see  things  my  way.  And  with  all  that  hanging  over 
me,  I  should  think  I  might  look  for  a  little  sympathy  from 
you.  Aunt  Helen.  Lots  of  girls  wouldn't  have  said  any- 
thing about  it.  But  I  told  you  because  I  want  you  to  see 
I'm  perfectly  straight  and  above-board." 

Mrs.  Jarrott  said  no  more  for  the  moment,  but  later  m 
the  day  she  confided  to  her  husband  that  the  girl  puzzled 
her.  "She  mixes  me  up  so  that  I  don't  know  which  of  us 
is  talking  sense."  She  was  not  at  all  sure  that  Evie  was 
fretting  about  Mr.  Strange— though  she  might  be.  If  she 
wasn't,  then  she  couldn't  be  well.  That  was  the  only 
explanation  of  her  depression  and  loss  of  appetite. 

"You  can  bet  your  life  he's  thinking  of  her,"  Mr.  Jarrott 
said,  with  the  lapse  from  colloquial  dignity  he  permitted 
himself  when  he  got  into  his  house-jacket.  "He's  praying 
to  her  image  as  if  it  was  a  wooden  samt. 

With  the  omission  of  the  word  wooden  this  was  much 
what  Strange  was  doing  at  Rosario.     Not  venturinij— m 
riew  of  all  the  circumstances— to  write  to  her,  he  could  only 
140 


.11     i, 


THE 


WILD        O   L   I  F  B 


erect  a  shrine  in  his  heart,  and  serve  it  with  a  devotion  very 
few  saints  enjoy.  He  found,  however,  that  absence  from 
her  did  not  enable  him  to  form  detached  and  impartial 
opinions  on  his  situation,  just  as  work  brought  no  sub- 
consciously reached  solution  to  the  problems  he  had  to 
face.  In  these  respects  he  was  disappointed  in  the  results 
of  his  unnecessary  flight  from  town. 

At  the  end  of  two  months  he  was  still  mentally  where  he 
was  when  he  left  Buenos  Aires.  His  intelligence  assured 
him  that  he  had  the  right  of  a  man  who  has  no  rights  to 
seize  and  carry  off  what  he  can;  while  that  nameless  some- 
thing else  within  him  refused  to  ratify  the  statement.  What 
precise  part  of  him  raised  this  obstacle  he  was  at  a  loss  to 
guess.  It  could  not  be  his  conscitnce,  since  he  had  been 
free  of  conscience  ever  since  the  night  on  Lake  Champlain. 
Still  less  could  it  be  his  heart,  seeing  that  his  heart  was 
crying  out  for  Evie  Colfax  more  fiercely  than  a  lion  roars 
for  food.  The  paralysis  of  his  judgment  had  become  such 
that  he  was  fast  approaching  the  determination  to  make 
Love  the  only  arbiter,  and  let  all  the  rest  go  hang! 

He  was  encouraged  in  this  impulse  by  the  thought  that 
between  her  and  himself  there  was  the  mysterious  bond  of 
something  "nie.Tnt."  He  believed  vaguely  in  a  Power, 
which,  with  designs  as  to  human  destinies,  manifests  its 
intentions  by  fitful  gleams,  vouchsafed  somewhat  erratically. 
In  this  way  Evie  Colfax,  as  a  beautiful,  fairy-like  child,  had 
been  revealed  to  him  at  the  most  critical  instant  of  his  life. 
His  mind  had  never  hitherto  gone  back  willingly  to  recollec- 
tions of  that  night;  but  now  he  made  the  excursion  into 
the  past  with  a  certain  amount  of  pleasure.  He  could  see 
her  still,  looking  at  a  picture-book,  her  face  resting  on  the 
back  of  her  hand>  and  golden  ringlets  falling  over  her  bare 
iO  141 


i 


I 


arm.  He  could  see  the  boy,  too.  He  remembered  that 
his  name  was  Billy.  Billy  who  ?  he  wondered.  He  could 
hear  the  sweet,  rather  fretful  voice  calling  from  the  shadows: 

"Evie  dear,  it's  time  to  go  to  bed.     Billy,  I  don't  believe 
they  let  you  stay  up  as  late  as  this  at  hume. 

How  ridiculous  it  would  have  been  to  remember  such 
trivial  details  all  these  years  if  something  hadn't  been 
"meant"  by  it.  There  was  a  hint  in  the  back  of  his  mind 
that  by  the  same  token  something  might  have  been  "meant 
about  the  Wild  Olive,  too,  but  he  had  not  an  equal  tempta- 
tion to  dwell  on  it.  The  Wild  Olive,  he  repeated,  had  never 
been  "his  type  of  girl"— not  from  the  very  first.  It  was 
obviously  impossible  for  a  superintending  Power  to  "  mean  " 
things  that  were  out  of  the  question. 

He  had  got  no  further  than  this  when  the  neves  was  con- 
veyed to  him  by  Mrs.  Green,  whom  he  met  accidentally  in 
the  street,  that  Mr.  Skinner,  the  second  partner,  had  had  a 
"stroke,"  and  had  been  ordered  to  Carlsbad.  Mrs.  Skinner, 
BO  Mrs.  Green's  letters  from  the  Port  informed  her,  was  to 
accompany  her  husband.  Furthermore.  Miss  Colfax  was 
seizing  the  opportunity  to  travel  with  them  to  Southampton, 
where  she  would  be  able  to  join  friends  who  would  take 
her  to  New  York.  There  was  even  a  rumor  that  Miss 
Jarrott  was  to  accompany  her  niece,  but  Mrs.  Green  was 
unable  to  vouch  for  the  truth  of  it.  In  any  case,  she  said, 
there  were  signs  of  "a  regular  shaking  up,"  such  as  comes 
periodically  in  any  great  mercantile  establishment;  and 
this  time,  she  ventured  to  hope,  Mr.  Green  would  get  his 
rights. 


I    (    ;      ;    1 

:   I  > 

I 


I 


zn 


|HE  knowledge  that  it  wa>  a  juncture  at  which 
to  execute  a  daring  movement  acted  as  an 
opiate  on  what  would  otherwise  have  been, 
for  Strange,  a  day  of  frenzy.  While  to  the 
outward  eye  he  was  going  quietly  about  his 
work,  he  was  inwardly  calling  all  his  resources  to  hi;  :id  to 
devise  some  plan  for  outwitting  circumstance.  After  forty- 
eight  hours  of  tearing  at  his  heart  and  hacking  at  his  brain, 
he  could  think  of  nothing  more  original  than  to  take  the  first 
train  down  to  the  Port,  ask  the  girl  to  be  his  wife,  and  let 
life  work  out  the  consequence.  At  the  end  of  two  days, 
however,  he  was  saved  from  a  too  deliberate  defiance  of  the 
unaccounted-for  inner  voice,  by  an  official  communication 
from  Mr.  Jarrott. 

It  was  in  the  brief,  dry  form  of  his  business  conversation, 
giving  no  hint  that  there  were  emotions  behind  the  stilted 
phraseology,  and  an  old  man's  yearnings.  Mr.  Skinner 
was  far  from  well,  and  would  "proceed  immediately"  to 
Carlsbad.  Strange  would  hand  over  the  business  at  Rosario 
to  Mr.  Green — who  would  become  resident  manager,  pro 
Um  at  any  rate — and  present  himself  in  Buenos  Aires  at  the 
earliest  convenient  moment.  Mr.  Jarrott  would  be  glad 
to  see  him  as  soon  as  possijle  after  his  arrival. 

That  was  all;  but  as  far  as  the  young  man  was  concerned, 
it  laved  the  situatioor    On  consulting  the  tteamer-list  he 
'43 


THE 


WILD        O   L   I  F  E 


11 


I 


■aw  that  the  Royal  Mail  Steam  Packet  Corrienus  would 
tail  for  Southampton  in  exactly  six  days'  time.  By  dint  of 
working  all  night  with  Mr.  Green,  who  was  happy  to  lend 
himself  to  anything  that  would  show  him  the  last  of  hit 
rival,  he  was  able  to  take  a  train  to  the  Port  next  day.  It 
was  half-past  six  when  he  arrived  in  Buenos  Aires.  By 
half-past  eight  he  had  washed,  changed  to  an  evening  suit, 
and  dined.  At  nine  his  cab  stopped  at  the  door  of  the 
house  at  Palermo. 

As  he  followed  the  elderly  man-servant  who  admitted  him, 
the  patio  was  so  dim  th.it  he  made  his  way  bur  slowly.  He 
made  his  way  but  slowly,  not  only  because  the  patio  wa« 
dim,  but  because  he  was  trying  to  get  his  crowding  emotions 
under  control  before  meeting  his  employer  in  an  interview 
that  might  be  fraught  with  serious  results.  For  once  in  his 
life  he  was  unnerved,  tremulous,  almost  afraid.  As  he 
passed  the  open  doors  and  windows  of  unlighted,  or  dimly 
lighted,  rooms  he  knew  she  might  be  in  any  one  of  the 
shadowy  recesses.  It  would  have  been  a  relief  to  hear  her 
at  the  piano,  or  in  conversation,  and  to  know  her  attention 
was  diverted.  None  the  less,  he  peered  about  for  a  glimpse 
of  her,  and  strained  his  hearing  for  a  sound  of  her  voice. 
But  all  was  still  and  silent,  except  for  the  muffled  footfall 
of  the  servant  leading  him  to  the  library  at  the  far  end  of 
the  court. 

If  she  had  not  moved  out  unexpecte -"ly  from  behind  a 
pillar,  a  little  fluttering  figure  in  a  wh..>  frock,  he  could 
have  kept  his  self-control.  If  he  had  not  come  upon  her  in 
this  sudden  way,  when  she  believed  him  in  Rosario,  she, 
too,  would  not  have  been  caught  at  a  disadvantage.  Aj 
it  was,  he  stood  still,  as  if  awe-struck.  She  gave  a  little 
cry,  as  if  frightened.  It  is  certain  that  his  movement  of 
144 


THE        WILD        O    L   I  F  E 

the  arms  was  an  automatic  proceu,  not  dictated  by  any 
order  of  the  brain;  and  the  lame  may  be  said  for  the 
impulse  which  threw  her  on  his  breast.  If,  after  that, 
the  rest  was  not  silence,  it  was  little  more.  What  he 
uttered  and  she  replied  was  scarcely  audible  to  either, 
though  it  was  understood  by  both.  It  was  all  over  so 
quickly  that  tht  man-servant  had  barely  thrown  open  the 
library  door,  anri  announced  "Mr.  Strange,"  when  Strange 
himself  was  on  the  threshold. 

It  was  a  moment  at  which  to  summon  all  his  wits  to- 
gether, to  attend  to  business;  but  he  was  astonished  at  the 
coolness  and  lightness  of  heart  with  which  he  did  it.  After 
those  brief,  sudden  vows  exchanged,  it  was  as  easy  to  dis- 
miss Evie  Colfax  momentarily  from  his  mind  as  it  is  to 
forget  money  troubles  on  inheriting  .i  fortune.  Neverthe- 
less, as  he  got  himself  ready  to  deal  with  practical,  and 
probably  quite  commercial,  topics,  he  was  fully  conscious 
of  the  rapture  of  her  love,  while  he  was  scarcely  less  aware 
of  a  comfort  closely  akin  to  joy  in  feeling  that  the  burden 
of  decision  had  been  lifted  from  him.  Since  Fate  had 
taken  the  matter  into  her  own  hands,  she  could  be  charged 
with  the  full  responsibility. 

Mr.  Jarrott,  who  was  smoking  a  cigar  and  sipping  his 
after-dinner  coffee,  was  in  evening  dress,  but  wore  his 
house-jacket — a  circumstance  of  which  Strange  did  not 
know  the  significance,  though  he  felt  its  effect.  The  old 
man's  welcome  was  not  unlike  that  of  a  shy  father  trying 
to  break  the  shackles  of  reserve  with  a  home-coming  son. 
He  pushed  Strange  gently  into  the  most  comfortable  arm- 
chair, beside  which  he  drew  up  a  small  table  for  the  cigar- 
box,  the  ash-tray,  and  the  matches.     He  rang  for  another 


THE        ff  I  L   D        OLIVE 


:•:, 


cup,  and  brought  the  coffee  with  his  own  handi.  Strang* 
lemembcred  how  often,  after  a  hard  day's  work,  he  had 
been  made  uncomfortable  by  just  such  awkward,  affection- 
ate attentions  from  poor  old  Monsieur  Durand. 

"I  didn't  expect  you  so  soon,"  Mr.  Jarrott  began,  wh«a 
they  were  both  seated,  "  but  you've  done  well  to  come.  I'm 
afraiil  we're  in  for  a  regular  upset  all  round." 

"I  hope  it  isn't  going  to  make  things  harder  for  yoa, 
•ir,"  Strange  Tentured,  in  the  tone  of  personal  concen 
which  his  kindly  treatment  seemed  to  warrant  him  ia 
taking. 

"  It  won't  if  I  can  get  the  right  men  into  the  right  placet. 
That  'II  be  the  tough  part  of  the  business.  The  wool  de- 
partment will  suffer  by  Mr.  Skinner's  absence — he's  Terjr 
ill,  in  my  opinion — and  there's  only  one  man  who  can 
take  his  place."  Strange  felt  his  heart  throbbing  and  the 
color  rising  to  his  face.  He  did  not  covet  the  position,  for 
he  disliked  the  wool  department;  but  it  was  undeniably  a 
"rise,"  and  right  along  the  line  of  highest  promotion. 
"That's  Jenkins,"  Mr.  Jarrott  finished,  (juietly. 

Strange  said  nothing.  After  all,  he  was  relieved.  Mr. 
Jarrott  did  not  go  on  at  once,  but  when  he  did  speak  Strange 
fell  back  into  the  depths  of  his  arm-chair,  in  an  attitude 
supi:  -itive  of  physical  collapse. 

"  And  if  Jenkins  came  back  here,"  the  old  man  pursued, 
"you'd  have  to  take  his  place  in  New  York." 

Strange  concealed  his  agitation  by  puffing  out  successive 
rings  of  smoke.  If  he  had  not  long  ago  considered  what  he 
would  say  should  this  proposal  ever  be  made  to  him,  he 
would  have  been  even  more  overcome  than  he  actually  was. 
He  had  meant  to  oppose  the  offer  with  a  point-blank  refusal, 
but  what  had  happened  within  the  last  quarter  of  an  hoar 
U6 


THE        WILD        O   L   I  r  B 

had  lo  modified  thii  judgment  that  he  could  only  lit,  turning 
things  rapidly  over  in  his  mind,  till  more  was  said. 

"There's  no  harm  in — a — telling  you,"  Mr.  Jarrott  went 
en  again,  with  that  hesitancy  Strange  had  begun  to  associ- 
ate with  important  announcements,  "that — a — Jenkins  will 
be — a — taken  into  partnership.  You  won't — a — be  taken 
into  partnership— a — yet.  But  you  will  have  a  good  salaiy 
in  New  York.     I  can — a — promise  you  that  much." 

It  was  because  he  was  unnerved  that  tears  smarted  in  the 
young  man's  eyes  at  the  implications  in  these  sentences.  He 
took  his  time  before  responding,  the  courtesies  of  the 
occasion  being  served  as  well  by  silence  as  by  speech. 

"I  won't  try  to  thank  you  for  all  your  kindness,  sir,"  he 
■aid,  with  a  visible  effort,  "until  I've  told  you  something — 
•omething  that,  very  likely,  you  won't  approve  of.  I'Tt 
asked  Miss  Colfax  to  marry  me,  and  she's  consented." 

llie  old  man's  brows  shot  up  incredulously. 

"That's  odd,"  he  said,  "because  not  half  an  hour  ago  sh« 
told  my  wife  there  was  nothing  whatever  between  you — 
that  you  hadn't  even  written  to  her  since  you  went  away. 
Mrs.  Jarrott  only  left  this  room  as  you  rang  the  door-bell." 

"But  it  was  after  I  rang  the  door-bell,"  Strange  stam- 
mered, "that  I — I— asked  her." 

"Quick  work,"  was  the  old  man's  only  comment,  but 
the  muscles  of  his  lips  relaxed  slowly,  as  if  rusty  from  disuse, 
into  one  of  his  rare  smiles. 

With  the  assurance  of  this  reception.  Strange  could 
afford  to  sit  silent  till  Mr.  Jarrott  made  some  further  sign. 

"By  the  terms  of  her  father's  will,"  he  explained  some 

minutes  later,  "I'm  her  guardian  and  trustee.     She  can't 

marry  without  my  consent  till  she  comes  of  age.     I  don't 

•ay  that  in  this  instance  I  should  — a — withhold  my  consent; 

H7 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


but  I  should  feel  constrained  to — a — give  it  with  condi- 
tions." 

"If  it's  anything  I  can  fulfil,  sir — " 

"No;  it  wouldn't  concern  you  so  much  as  her.  She's 
Tety  young — and  in  heart  she's  younger  than  her  age.  She 
knows  nothing  about  men — she  can't  know — and  I  dare 
say  you're  the  first  young  fellow  who  ever  said  anything 
to  her  about — well,  you  understand  what  I  mean.  Mind 
you,  we've  no  objections  to  you  whatever.  You  are  your 
own  credentials;  and  we  take  them  at  their  face  value. 
You  tell  me  you're  an  orphan,  with  no  near  relations,  so 
that  there  couldn't  be  any  complications  on  that  score. 
Besides  that,  you're — a  likely  chap;  and  I  don't  mind 
saying  that — a — my  ladies — Mrs.  Jarrott  and  my  sister — 
have  taken  rather  a  fancy  to  you.  It  can't  do  you  any — a 
— harm  to  know  as  much  as  that." 

Strange  murmurred  his  appreciation,  and  the  old  man 
went  on. 

"No;  you're  all  right.  But,  as  I  said  before,  she's  very 
young,  and  if  we  married  her  to  you  out  of  hand  we  feel  that 
we  shouldn't  be  giving  her  a  fair  show.  We  think  she  ought 
to  have  a  little  more  chance  to  look  round  her,  so  to  speak. 
In  fact,  she  isn't  what  ladies  call  'out.'  She's  scarcely  ever 
seen  a  man,  except  through  a  window.  Consequently,  we 
think  we  must  send  her  back  to  New  York,  for  a  winter  at 
any  rate,  and  trot  the  procession  before  her.  My  sister 
is  to  undertake  it,  and  they're  to  sail  next  week.  That 
won't  make  so  much  difference  to  you  now,  as  it  would  if 
you  weren't  soon  going  to  follow  them." 

Strange  nodded.  He  felt  himself  being  wafted  to  New 
York,  whether  he  would  or  no. 

"Now  all  I  have  to  say  is  this:  if,  when  she's  regularly 
148 


m 


K 


THE 


WILD 


O    L   I  F  E 


started,  she  sees  some  other  young  fellow  she  likes  better 
than  you,  you're  to  give  her  up  without  making  a  fuss." 

"Of  course.  Naturally,  she  would  have  to  be  free  to  do 
as  she  chose  in  the  long  run.     I'm  not  afraid  of  losing  her — " 

"That  '11  be  your  own  lookout.  You'll  be  on  the  spot, 
and  will  have  as  good  a  chance  as  anybody  else.  Youll 
have  a  better  chance;  for  you'll  only  have  to  keep  what 
you've  won,  while  any  one  else  would  have  to  start  in  at  the 
beginning.  But  it's  understood  that  there — a — can  be  no 
talk  of  a  wedding  just  yet.  She  must  have  next  winter  to 
reconsider  her  promise  to  you,  if  she  wants  to." 

Strange  having  admitted  the  justice  of  this,  the  old  man 
rose,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"We'll  keep  the  matter  between  ourselves — in  the  family, 
I  mean — for  the  time  being,"  he  sai^l,  with  another  slowly 
breaking  smile;  "but  the  ladies  will  want  to  wish  you  luck. 
You  must  come  into  the  drawing-room  and  see  them." 

They  were  half-way  to  the  doer  when  Mr.  Jarrott  paused. 

"And,  of  course,  you'll  go  to  New  York  ?  I  didn't  think 
it  necessary  to  ask  you  if  you  cared  to  make  the  change." 

With  the  question  straight  before  him.  Strange  knew 
that  an  answer  must  be  given.  He  understood  now  how 
it  is  that  there  are  men  and  women  who  find  it  worth  their 
while  to  thrust  their  heads  into  lions'  mouths. 

"Yes,  sir,  of  course,"  he  answered,  quietly;  and  thejr 
went  on  to  join  the  ladies. 


It 


1 

i« 

i^ 

fl 

raiftrf 

1 

'! 

m 

J 

Il  ' 

■^1 

] 

)  ^ 

i 

t 

Part  III 
MIRIAM 


"  I 


\i 


, 


XIII 


HN  a  day  when  Evie  Colfax  was  nearing 
Southampton,  and  Herbert  Strange  sailing 
northward  from  the  Rio  de  la  Plata,  up  the 
coast  of  Brazil,  Miriam  Strange,  in  New 
I  York,  was  standing  in  the  embrasure  of  a 
large  bay-window  of  a  fifth-floor  apartment,  in  that  section 
of  Fifty-ninth  Street  that  skirts  the  southern  limit  of  Cen- 
tral Park.  Her  conversation  with  the  man  beside  her  turned 
on  subjects  which  both  knew  to  be  only  preliminary  to  the 
business  that  had  brought  him  in.  He  inquired  about  her 
voyage  home  from  Germany,  and  expressed  his  sympathy 
with  "poor  Wayne"  on  the  hopelessness  and  finality  of  the 
Wiesbaden  oculist's  report.  Taking  a  lighter  tone,  he  said, 
with  a  gesture  toward  the  vast  expanse  of  autumn  color 
on  which  they  were  looking  down: 

"You  didn't  see  anything  finer  than  that  in  Europe. 
Come  now!" 

"No,  I  didn't — not  in  its  own  way.    As  long  as  I  can 
look  at  this  I'm  almost  reconciled  to  living  in  a  town." 

As  her  eyes  roamed  over  the  sea  of  splendor  that  stretched 
from  their  very  feet,  a  vision  of  October  gorgeousness  against 
the  sky,  he  was  able  to  steal  a  glance  at  her.  His  immediate 
observation  was  to  the  effect  that  the  suggestion  of  wildness 
— or,  more  correctly,  of  a  wild  origin —  was  as  noticeable  in 
her  now,  a  woman  of  twenty-seven,  as  it  was  when  he  first 
>53 


! 
1 

*      : 

- 

• 

il 

^ 

THE        fr  I  L   D        OLIVE 

knew  her,  a  girl  of  nineteen.  That  she  should  have  brought 
it  with  her  from  a  childhood  passed  amid  lakes  and  riven 
and  hills  was  natural  enough — just  as  it  was  natural  that 
her  voice  should  have  that  liquid  cadence  which  belongs 
to  people  of  the  forest,  though  it  is  rarely  caught  by  human 
speech  elsewhere;  but  that  she  should  have  conserved  these 
qualities  through  the  training  of  a  woman  of  the  world  was 
more  remarkable.  But  there  it  was,  that  something  wood- 
land-born, which  London  and  New  York  had  neither  sub- 
merged nor  swept  away.  It  was  difficult  to  say  in  what  it 
consisted,  since  it  eluded  the  effort  to  say,  "It  is  this  or 
that."  It  resisted  analysis,  as  it  defied  description.  Though 
it  might  have  been  in  the  look,  or  in  the  manner,  it  con- 
Teyed  itself  to  the  observer's  apprehension,  otherwise  than 
by  the  eye  or  ear,  as  if  it  appealed  to  some  extra  sense. 
People  who  had  not  Charles  Conquest's  closeness  of  per- 
ception spoke  of  her  as  "odd,"  while  those  who  had  heard 
the  little  there  was  to  learn  about  her,  said  to  each  other, 
"Well,  what  could  you  expect?"  Young  men,  as  a  rule, 
fought  shy  of  her,  not  so  much  from  indifference  as  from 
a  sense  of  an  indefinable  barrier  between  her  and  them- 
selves; so  that  it  was  the  older  men  who  sought  her  out. 
There  was  always  some  fear  on  Conquest's  part  lest  the 
world  should  so  assimilate  her  that  her  distinctiveness — 
which  was  more  like  an  influence  that  radiated  than  a 
char.icteristic  that  could  be  seen — would  desert  her;  and 
it  was  with  conscious  satisfaction  that  he  noted  now,  after 
an  absence  of  some  months,  that  it  was  still  there. 

He  noted,  too,  the  sure  lines  of  her  profile — a  profile 

becoming  clearer  cut  as  she  grew  older — features  wrought 

with  delicacy  and  yet  imbued  with  strength,  suggestive  of 

carved    ivory.     Delicacy   imbued   with   strength   wa«   b«- 

15* 


THE        IV  I  L   D        OLIVE 

tokened,  too,  by  the  tall  slendemess  of  her  figure,  whote 
silence  and  suppleness  of  movement  came — in  Conquest'i 
imagination  at  least — from  her  far-off  forest  ancestry. 

"I  couldn't  live  anywhere  else  but  here — if  it  must  be 
in  New  York,"  she  said,  turning  from  the  window.  "I 
couldn't  do  without  the  sense  of  woods,  and  space,  and 
•ky.  I  can  stand  at  this  window  and  imagine  all  soiti  of 
things — that  the  park  really  does  run  into  the  Catskilli, 
as  it  seems  to  do — that  the  Catskills  run  into  the  Adiron- 
dack!— and  that  the  Adirondacks  take  me  up  to  the  Laureo- 
tides,  with  which  my  earliest  recollections  begin." 

"I  think  you're  something  like  Shelley's  Venice,"  he 
smiled,  "a  sort  of 'daughter  of  the  earth  and  ocean.'  You 
never  seem  to  me  to  belong  in  just  the  ordinary  categoty — " 

She  had  been  afraid  of  something  like  this  from  the  min- 
ute he  was  announced,  and  so  hastened  to  cling  to  the  im- 
personal. 

"Then,  the  apartment  is  so  convenient.  Being  all  cm 
ene  floor,  it  is  so  much  easier  for  Mr.  Wayne  to  get  about 
k  than  if  he  had  stairs  to  climb.  I  didn't  tell  you  that  I've 
had  Mrs.  Wayne's  room  done  over  for  Evie.  It's  so  much 
larger  and  lighter  than  her  old  one — " 

He  cleared  his  throat  uneasily. 

"  I  remember  your  saying  something  of  the  kind  before 
you  went  away  in  the  spring.  It's  one  of  the  things  I  came 
in  to  talk  about  to-day  V 

"Indeed  ?"  His  change  of  tone  alarmed  her.  He  had 
taken  on  the  air  of  a  man  about  to  break  unpleasant  news. 
"Won't  you  sit  down .'  I'll  ring  for  tea.  We're  not  in 
very  good  order  yet,  but  the  servants  can  give  us  that 
much." 

She  spoke  for  the  purpose  of  hiding  her  imeatiness,  jaK 
•55 


1 

.'  '   j 

■-i'   i 

!,'^i 

i-ji 

\  - 

■■I  * 

V  * 

•    I 

] 

'^ 

as  she  felt  that  she  should  be  more  sure  of  herself  while 
handling  the  teacups  tlian  if  she  were  sitting  idle. 

"I've  had  a  letter  from  Mr.  Jarrott,"  he  said,  making 
himself  comfortable,  while  she  moved  the  tea-uble  in  front 
of  her.  "He  wrote  to  me,  partly  as  Stephens  and  Jarrott's 
legal  adviser,  and  partly  as  a  friend." 

He  allowed  that  ir  formation  time  to  sink  in  before  con- 
tinuing. 

"  He  tells  me  Miss  Jarrott  is  on  her  way  home,  with  Evie." 
"Yes;   Evie  herself  wrote  me  that.     I  got  the  letter  at 
Gherbourg." 
"Then  she  probably  told  you  about  the  house." 
"The  house?    What  house  ?" 

"The  house  they've  asked  me  to  take  for  the  winter — 
for  Miss  Jarrott  and  her." 

The  tea-things  came,  giving  her  the  relief  of  occupation. 
She  said  nothing  for  the  moment,  and  her  attention  seemed 
concentrated  on  the  rapid,  silent  movements  of  her  own 
hands  among  the  silver  and  porcelain.  Once  she  looked  up, 
but  her  glance  fell  as  she  saw  his  small,  keen,  gray-green 
eyes  scanning  her  obliquely. 

"So  I'm  not  to  have  her  ?"  she  said,  at  last. 
"It's  only  for  this  winter — " 

"Oh,  I  know.  But  what's  for  this  winter  will  be  for 
every  winter!" 

"And  she  won't  be  far  away.  I've  taken  the  Grant's 
house  in  Seventy-second  Street.  They  asked  for  a  house 
in  which  they  could  do  some  entertain' :ig.  You  see,  they 
want  to  give  her  a  good  time — " 

"I  quite  understand  all  that.     Evie  has  to  'come  out.' 
I've  not  the  least  doubt  that  they're  managing  it  in  the  best 
way  possible.    Yes,  I  see  that.    If  I  feel  a  little— well,  I 
156 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

won't  say  hurt— but  a  little — sorry — it's  because  I've  almost 
brought  Evie  up.  And  I  suppose  I'm  the  person  she's  most 
fond  of — as  far  as  she's  fond  of  any  one." 

"I  presume  she's  fond  of  my  nephew,  Billy  Merrow." 

"  I  hope  so.  Billy  rather  teased  her  into  that  engagement, 
jrou  know.  She's  too  young  to  be  deeply  in  love — unless 
it  was  with  one  romantic.  And  Billy  isn't  that.  I'm  not 
sure  that  there  isn't  trouble  ahead  for  him." 

"Then  I  shall  let  him  worry  through  it  himself.  I've 
got  other  things  to  think  about." 

When  she  had  given  him  his  tea  and  begun  to  sip  her  own, 
she  looked  up  with  that  particular  bright  smile  which  in 
women  means  the  bracing  of  the  courage. 

"It  11  be  all  right,"  she  said,  with  forced  conviction.  "I 
know  it  will.  It's  foolish  in  me  to  think  I  shall  miss  her, 
when  she  will  be  so  near.  It's  only  because  she  and  Mr. 
Wayne  are  all  I've  got — " 

"They  needn't  be,"  he  interposed,  draining  his  cup,  and 
setting  it  down,  like  a  man  preparing  for  action. 

She  knew  her  own  words  had  exposed  her  to  this,  and 
was  vexed  with  herself  for  speaking  in  a  dangerous  situation 
without  due  foresight.  For  a  minute  she  could  think  of 
nothing  to  say  that  would  ward  off  his  thrust.  She  sat 
looking  at  him  rather  helplessly,  unconsciously  appealing 
to  him  with  her  eyes  to  let  the  subject  drop. 

If  he  meant  to  go  on  with  it,  he  took  his  time — flecking  a 
few  crumbs  from  his  white  waistcoat  and  from  his  finger- 
tips. In  the  action  he  showed  himself  for  what  he  was — a 
man  so  neat  as  just  to  escape  being  dapper.  There  was 
nothing  large  about  him,  in  either  mind  or  body;  while,  on 
the  contrary,  there  was  much  that  was  keen  and  able.  The 
incisiveness  of  the  face  would  have  been  too  sharp  had  it 
11  157 


THE        tr  I  L   D        OLIVE 

not  been  laved  by  the  high-bred  effect  of  a  Roman  no.e  .nd 
a  handsome  mouth  and  chin.  The  fair  musuche  faded 
now  rather  than  gray,  softened  the  cynicism  of  the  hp« 
without  concealing  it.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  accustomed 
to  "see  through"  other  men-to  "see  through  '  life-com- 
pelling its  favors  from  the  world  rather  than  astmg  them. 
The  detailed  exactness  and  unobtrusive  costhness  of  every- 
thing about  him,  from  the  pearl  in  his  tie  to  the  polish 
on  his  boots,  were  indicative  of  a  will  rigorously  demanding 
"the  best,"  and  taking  it.  The  refusal  of  it  now  in  the 
person  of  the  only  woman  whom  he  had  ever  wanted  at  a 
wife  left  him  puzzled,  slightly  exasperated,  as  before  a 
phenomenon  not  to  be  explained.  It  was  this  unusual 
resistance  that  caused  the  somewhat  impauent  tone  he  took 

with  her.  ,      ,•■ 

"It's  all  nonsense— your  living  as  you  do-like  a  pro- 
fessional trained  nurse."  ^  ,, 
"The  life  of  a  professional  trained  nurse  isn  t  nonsense. 

"It  is  for  you."  ,        ,       i      ^ 

"On  the  contrary;  it's  for  me,  more  than  for  almost 
any  one,  to  justify  my  right  to  being  in  the  world.|| 

"Oh,  come  now  I     Don't  let  us  begin  on  that. 

"  I  don't  want  to  begin  on  it.  I'd  much  rather  not.  But 
if  you  don't,  you  throw  away  the  key  that  explams  everything 

about  me."  .<t.,>. 

"All  right,"  he  rejoined,  in  an  argumentative  tone.  Let  s 
talk  about  it,  then.  Let's  have  it  out.  You  feel  your  posi- 
tion; granted.  Mind  you,  I've  always  said  you  wouldn  t 
have  done  so  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Gertrude  Wayne.  The 
world  to-day  has  too  much  common  sense  to  lay  stress  on 
a  circumstance  of  that  kind.  Believe  me,  nobody  thinks 
about  it  but  yourself.  Did  Lady  Bonchurch  ?  Did  any 
158 


THE        tV  I  L   D        O   L   I  y  B 

of  her  friends  ?  You've  got  it  a  little  bit— just  a  little  bit- 
on  the  brain;  and  the  fault  isn't  yours;  it  belongs  to  the 
woman  whose  soul  is  gone,  I  hope,  where  it's  freed  from 
the  rules  of  a  book  of  etiquette." 

"She  meant  well — " 

"Oh,  every  failure,  and  bungler,  and  mischief-maker 
means  well.  That's  the  ir  charter.  I'm  n"f  concerned  with 
that.  I'm  speaking  of  what  she  did.  She  fixed  it  in  your 
mind  that  you  were  like  a  sapling  sprung  from  a  seed  blown 
outside  the  orch.nrd.  You  think  you  can  minimize  that 
accident  by  bringing  forth  as  good  as  any  to  be  found  within 
the  pale.  Consequently  you've  taken  a  poor,  helpless,  blind 
man  off  the  hands  of  the  people  whose  duty  it  is  to  look  after 
him — and  who  are  well  able  to  do  it — " 

"That  isn't  the  reason,"  she  declared,  flushing.  "If  Mr. 
Wayne  and  I  live  together  it's  because  we're  used  to  each 
other — and  in  a  way  he  has  taken  the  place  of  my 
father." 

"Oh,  come  now!  That's  all  very  fine.  But  haven't  you 
got  in  the  back  of  your  mind  the  thought  that  the  wild  tree 
that's  known  by  its  good  fruit  is  the  one  that's  best  worth 
grafting  ?" 

"If  I  had — "  she  began,  with  color  deepening. 

"If  you  had,  you'd  simply  be  taking  a  long  way  round, 
when  there's  a  short  cut  home.  I'm  the  orchard,  Miriam. 
All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  walk  into  it — with  me." 

A  warmer  tone  came  into  his  voice  as  he  uttered  the  con- 
cluding words,  adding  to  her  discomfort.  She  moved  the 
tea-things  about,  putting  them  into  an  unnecessary  state  of 
order,  before  she  could  reply. 

"There's  a  reason  why  I  couldn't  do  that,"  she  said, 
meeting  his  sharp  eyes  with  one  of  her  fugitive  glances.  "I 
•59 


THE       W'l  L  D        OLIVE 

would  have  given  it  to  you  when— when  you  brought  up 
thii  iubject  Uit  ipring,  only  you  didn't  ask  me." 
"Well,  what  is  it  r 
"I  couldn't  love  you." 

She  forced  herself  to  bring  out  the  words  distinctly.  He 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  threw  one  leg  across  the  other, 
and  stroked  the  thin,  colorless  line  of  his  mustache. 

"No,  I  suppose  you  couldn't,"  he  said,  quietly,  after 
considering  her  words. 
"So  that  my  answer  has  to  be  final." 
"I  don't  see  that.     Love  is  only  one  of  the  many  motives 
for  marriage — and  not,  as  I  understand  it,  tlie  liij^hest  one. 
The  divorce  courts  are  strewn  with  the  wrecks  of  mar- 
riages made  for  love.     Those  that  stand  the  ti'st  of  life  and 
time  are  generally  those  that  have  been  contracted  from 
some  of  the  more  solid — and  worthier — motives. ' 
"Then  I  don't  know  what  they  are." 
"I  could  explain  them  to  you  if  you'd  let  me.     As  for 
love — if  it's  needed  at  all — I  could  brin<;  enough  into  hotch- 
potch, as  the  phrase  goes,  to  do  for  two.     I'm  over  fifty 
years  of  age.     It  never  occurred  to  me  that  you  could — care 
about  me — as  you  might  have  cared   for  some  one  else. 
But  as  far  as  I  can  see,  there's  no  one  else.     If  there  was, 
perhaps  I  shouldn't  persist." 

She  looked  up  with  sudden  determination. 
"If  there  was  any  one  else,  you — would   consider  that 
as  settling  the  question  ?" 

"I    might.      I    shouldn't    bind    myself.      It  would    de- 
pend." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you;  there  iV  some  one  else."    The  words 
caused  her  to  flush  so  painfully  that  she  hastened  to  qualify 
them.     "That  is,  there  might  have  been." 
i6o 


THE       fr  I  L  D        O   L   I   F  B 

"What  do  you  mean  by— might  have  been  f" 

"I  mean  that,  though  I  don't  iay  I've  ever — loved — any 
man,  there  wai  a  man  I  might  have  loved,  if  it  had  berTi 
potsible." 

"And  why  wasn't  it  pouible?" 

"I'd  rather  not  tell  you.  It  wa«  a  long  time  ap  >  i\c 
went  away.     He  never  came  back  again." 

"Did  he  say  he'd  come  back  again?" 

She  shook  her  head.  She  tried  to  meet  his  gajf  -i-.idily . 
but  it  was  like  facing  a  search-light. 

"Were  you  what  you  would  call — engaged  f" 

"Oh  no."  Her  confusion  deepened.  "There  was  nevr 
anything.  It  was  a  long  time  ago.  I  only  want  you  to 
understand  that  if  I  could  care  for  any  one  it  would 
be  for 'him.    And  if  I  married  you — and  he  came  back — " 

"Are  you  expecting  him  back?" 

She  was  a  long  time  answering  the  question.  She  would 
not  have  answered  it  at  all  had  it  not  been  in  the  hope  of 
getting  rid  of  him. 

"Yes." 

He  took  the  declaration  coolly,  and  went  on. 

"Why?    What  makes  you  think  he'll  come?" 

"I  have  no  reason.     I  think  he  will— that's  all." 

"Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea." 

"Hasn't  he  ever  written  to  you?" 

"Never." 

"  And  you  don't  know  what's  become  of  him  ?* 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"And  yet  you  expect  him  back  V 

She  nodded  assent. 

"You're  waiting  for  him  ?" 
i6i 


11 


12:*    i 


ill 


I' 


1   * 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

Once  more  she  braced  herself  to  look  him  in  the  eyes  and 
answer  boldly. 
"I  am." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed,  not  loudly,  but 
in  good-humored  derision. 

"  If  that's  all  that  stands  between  us—" 
To  her  relief  he  said  no  more;  though  she  was  disappointed 
that  the  subject  should  be  dropped  in  a  way  that  made  it 
possible  to  bring  it  up  again.    As  he  was  taking  his  leave 
she  renewed  the  attempt  to  end  the  matter  once  for  all. 
"I  know  you  think  me  foolish—"  she  began. 
"No,  not  foolish;    only  romantic." 
"Then,   romantic.     Romance  is  as   bad  as  folly  when 
one  is  twenty-seven.     I  confess  it,"  she  went  on,  trying  to 
tmile,  "only  that  you  may  understand  that  it's  a  permanent 
condition  which  I  sha'n't  get  over." 
"Oh  yes,  you  will." 

"Things  happened— long  ago— such  as  don't  generally 
happen;  and  so— I'm  waiting  for  him.  If  he  never  comes 
—then  I'd  rather  go  on— waiting— uselessly." 

It  was  hard  to  say,  but  it  was  said.  He  laughed  again 
—not  quite  so  ierisively  as  before— and  went  away. 

When  he  had  gone,  she  resumed  her  seat  behind  the  tea- 
table.  She  sat  looking  absently  at  the  floor  and  musing 
on  the  words  she  had  just  spoken.  Not  in  all  the  seven  or 
eight  years  since  Norrie  Ford  went  away  had  she  acknowl- 
edged to  her  own  heart  what,  within  the  last  few  mmutes, 
she  had  declared  aloud.  The  utmost  she  had  ever  owned 
to  herself  was  that  she  "  could  have  loved  him."  When  sha 
refused  other  men,  she  did  not  confess  to  waiting  for  him; 
she  evaded  the  question  with  herself,  and  found  preterB. 
She  would  have  continued  doing  so  with  Conquest,  had  not 
162 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

bis  persistency  driven  her  to  her  last  stand.  But  now  that 
she  had  uttered  the  words  for  his  benefit,  she  had  to  repeat 
them  for  her  own.  Notwithsunding  her  passionate  love 
of  woods,  winds,  and  waters,  she  had  always  been  so  sane, 
so  practical,  in  the  things  that  pertained  to  daily  life  that 
she  experienced  something  like  surprise  at  detecting  herself 
in  this  condition  of  avowed  romance.  She  had  actually 
been  waiting  for  Norrie  Ford  to  return,  and  say  what  he  had 
told  her  he  would  say,  should  it  ever  become  possible!  She 
was  waiting  for  him  still!  If  he  never  came  she  would 
rather  go  on  waiting  for  him— uselessly!  The  language 
almost  shocked  her;  but  now  that  the  thing  was  spoken  she 
admitted  it  was  true.  It  was  a  light  thrown  on  herself — if 
not  precisely  a  new  light,  at  least  one  from  which  all  shades 
J.id  colored  wrapping-  that  delude  the  eye  and  obscure  the 
judgment  had  been  struck  away. 

She  smiled  to  herself  to  think  how  little  Conquest  under- 
stood her  when  he  ascribed  to  her  the  ambition  to  graft  her 
ungarnered  branch  on  the  stock  of  a  duly  cultivated  civiliza- 
tion. She  might  have  had  that  desire  once,  but  it  was  long 
past.  It  was  a  kind  of  glory  to  her  now  to  be  outside  the 
law — with  Norrie  Ford.  There  they  were  exiles  together, 
ill  a  wild  paradise  with  j^ys  of  its  own,  not  less  sweet  than 
those  of  any  Eden.  She  had  faced  more  than  once  the 
question  of  being  "taken  into  the  orchard,"  as  Conquest  put 
it.  The  men  who  had  asked  her  at  various  rimes  to  marry 
them  had  been  like  himself,  men  of  middle  age,  or  approach- 
ing it — men  of  assured  position  either  by  birth  or  by  attain- 
ment. As  the  wife  of  any  one  of  them  her  place  would  have 
been  unquestioned.  She  had  not  rejected  their  offers 
lightly,  or  from  any  foregone  conclusion.  She  had  taken 
it  as  a  duty  to  weigh  each  one  seriously  as  it  came;  and, 
163 


rw: 


IJ^M" 


THE       WILD        OLIVE 

leaving  the  detail  of  love  apart,  she  had  asked  herself 
whether  it  was  not  right  for  her  to  seize  the  occasion  of 
becoming  "some  one"  in  the  world.  Once  or  twice  the 
position  offered  her  was  so  much  in  accordance  with  her 
tastes  that  her  refusal  brought  with  it  a  certain  vague  regret. 
"But  I  couldn't  do  it,"  were  the  words  with  which  she 
woke  from  every  dream  of  seeing  herself  mistress  in  a  quiet 
English  park,  or  a  big  house  in  New  York.  Her  habits 
might  be  those  of  civilized  mankind;  but  her  heart  was 
listening  for  a  call  from  beyond  the  limits  in  which  men 
have  the  recognized  right  to  liv?.  She  could  put  no  shackles 
on  her  freedom  to  respond  to  it — if  it  ever  came. 


XIV 


SHE  discovered  that  Nome  Ford  had  come 
back,  and  that  some  of  her  expectations  were 
fulfilled  by  finding  him  actually  seated  be- 
side her  one  evening  at  dinner. 
Miss  Jarrott's  taste  in  table  light  was  in 
the  direction  of  candles  tempered  by  deep-red  shades.  As 
no  garish  electricity  was  allowed  to  intrude  itself  into  this 
soft  glow,  the  result  was  that  only  old  acquaintances  among 
her  guests  got  a  satisfactory  notion  of  each  other's  features. 
It  was  vpith  a  certain  sense  of  discovery  that,  by  peering 
through  the  rose-colored  twilight,  Miriam  discerned  now 
a  Jarrott  or  a  Colfax,  now  an  Endsleigh  or  a  Pole — faces 
more  or  less  well  known  to  her  which  she  had  not  had 
time  to  recognize  during  the  few  hurried  minutes  in  the 
drawing-room. 


It  was  the  dinner  of  which  Evie  had  said,  in  explaining 
her  plan  of  campaign  to  Miriam,  "We  must  kill  off  the 
family  first  of  all."  It  was  plain  that  she  regarded  the 
duty  as  a  bore;  but  she  was  too  worldly  wise  not  to  see 
that  her  bread  cast  upon  the  waters  would  return  to  her. 
Most  of  the  Jarrotts  were  important;  some  were  wealthy; 
and  one — Mrs.  Endsleigh  Jarrott — was  a  power  in  such 
matters  as  assemblies  and  cotillons.  The  ladies  Colfax 
were  little  less  influential;  and  while  the  sphere  of  the 
i6s 


Vi 


SJ 


T  H  E        WILD        O   L   I   y    E 

Poles  and  Endsleighs  was  in  the  world  of  art,  letters,  and 
Kholarship,  rather  than  in  that  of  fashion  and  finance, 
they  had  the  uncontested  -tatus  of  good  birth.  To  Evie 
they  represented  just  so  much  in  the  way  of  her  social  assets, 
and  she  was  quick  in  appraising  them  at  their  correct  rela- 
tive values.  Some  would  be  good  for  a  dinner  given  in 
her  honor,  others  for  a  dance.  The  humblest  could  be 
counted  on  for  a  theatre-party  or  a  "tea."  She  was  skilful, 
too,  in  presenting  her  orphan  state  with  a  touching  vivid- 
ness that  enlisted  their  sympathies  on  behalf  of  "poor 
Jack's,"  or  "poor  Gertrude's,"  pretty  little  girl,  according 
to  the  side  of  the  house  on  which  they  recognized  the 
relationship. 

With  the  confusion  incidental  to  the  arrival  from  South 
America,  the  settling  into  a  new  house,  and  the  ordering 
of  new  clothes,  Miriam  had  had  little  of  the  old  intimate 
intercourse  with  Evie  during  the  six  weeks  since  the  latter'* 
return.  There  was  no  change  in  their  mutual  relation;  it 
was  only  that  Evie  was  caught  up  into  the  glor)  of  the 
coming  winter,  and  had  no  time  for  the  apartment  in 
Fifty-ninth  Street.  It  was  with  double  pleasure,  therefore, 
that  Miriam  responded  one  day  to  Evie's  invitation  to 
"come  and  look  at  my  things,"  which  meant  an  mspection 
of  the  frocks  and  hats  that  had  just  come  home.  They  lay 
about  now,  in  clouds  like  a  soft  summer  sunset,  or  m  gay 
spots  of  feathers  and  flowers,  on  the  bed  and  the  sofa  in 
Evie's  room,  and  filled  all  the  chairs  except  the  one  on 
which  Miriam  had  retreated  into  the  farthest  corner  of 
the  bay-window.  Seated  there,  not  quite  in  profile,  agamat 
the  light,  her  head  turned  and  slightly  inclined,  in  order  to 
get  a  better  view  of  Evie's  finery,  her  slender  figure  pos- 
ieised  a  tort  of  Vandyke  grace,  heightened  rather  than 
i66 


THE        fr  I  L   D        O    L   I   F  E 


diminished  by  the  long  plumes  and  rich  draperies  of  thi 
month's  fashion.  Evie  flitted  between  closets,  wardrobes, 
and  drawers,  prattling  while  she  worked  off  that  first  event 
of  her  season,  in  which  the  family  were  to  be  "iujled  off." 
She  recited  the  names  of  those  who  would  "simply  havt 
to  be  asked"  and  of  those  who  could  conveniently  be 
omitted. 

"And,  of  course,  Popsey  Wayne  must  come,"  (he  ob- 
served, in  her  practical  little  way.  "I  dare  say  he  won't 
want  to,  poor  dear,  but  it  wouldn't  do  if  he  di'Jn't.  Only 
you,  you  dear  thing,  will  have  to  go  in  with  him — to  pilot 
him  and  look  after  him  when  the  dishes  are  passed.  But 
I  m  going  to  have  some  one  nice  on  your  other  side,  do 
jiou  see  f — some  one  awfully  nice.  We  shall  have  to  ask 
a  few  people  outside  the  family,  just  to  give  it  relief,  and 
eve  it  from  looking  like  Christmas." 

"  You'll  have  Billy,  I  suppose." 

Evie  took  the  time  to  deposit  a  lace  blcnise  in  a  drawer, 
2a  softly  as  a  mother  lays  a  sleeping  babe  to  rest. 

"No,  I  sha'n't  ask  Billy,"  she  said,  while  she  was  soil 
stooping. 

"Won't  he  think  that  queer?" 

"I  hope  so."  She  turned  from  the  drawer,  and  lifted  a 
blue  gossamer  creation  from  the  bed.  Miriam  smiled 
indulgently. 

"  Why  ?  What's  the  matter  f  Have  you  anything  to 
punish  him  for  ?" 

"I've  nothing  to  punish  him  for;  I've  only  got  some- 
thing I  want  to — bring  home  to  him."  She  paused  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  with  her  blue  burden  held  in  her  out- 
stretched arms,  somewhat  like  a  baby  at  a  christening.  "I 
might  as  well  tell  you,  Miriam,  first  as  last.  You've  got  to 
107 


i 


THE 


WILD        OLIVE 


III 


\t 


know  it  some  time,  though  I  don't  want  it  talked  about  juit 
yet.     I've  broken  my  engagement  to  Billy. 

"Broken  your  engagement!  Why,  J  saw  Billy  myself 
this  morning.  I  met  him  as  I  was  ccining  over.  He  said 
he  was  here  last  night,  and  seemed  particularly  cheerful." 
"He  doesn't  know  it  yet.  I'm  doing  it— by  degrees." 
"You're  doing  it  by— what?"  Miriam  rose  and  came 
toward  her,  stopping  midway  to  lean  on  the  foot-rail  of 
the  bed.     "Evie  darling,  what  do  you  mean?" 

Evie's  eyes  brimmed  suddenly,  and  her  lip  trembled. 
"If  you're  going  to  be  cross  about  it — " 
"I'm  not  going  to  be  cross  about  it,  but  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  exactly  what  you're  doing." 

"Well,  I'm  telling  you.  I've  broken  my  engagement, 
and  I  want  to  let  Billy  know  it  in  the  kindest  way.  I  don't 
want  to  hurt  his  feelings.  You  wouldn't  like  me  to  do  that 
yourself.  I'm  trying  to  bring  him  where  he'll  see  things 
just  as  I  do." 

"And  may  I  ask  if  you're— getting  him  there  ?" 
"I  shall  get  him  there  in  time.     I'm  doing  lots  of  things 
to  show  him." 
"Such  as  what?" 

"Such  as  not  asking  him  to  the  dinner,  for  one  thing. 
He'll  know  from  that  there's  something  wrong.  Hell 
make  a  fuss,  and  I  shall  be  disagreeable.  Little  by  little 
he'll  get  to  dislike  me — and  then—" 

"And  how  long  do  you  think  it  will  take  for  that  good 
work  to  be  accomplished  ?" 

"I  don't  see  that  that  matters.  I  suppose  I  may  take  all 
the  time  I  need.     We're  bo  S  young—" 

"And  have  all  your  li- ...   o  give  to  it.     Is  that  what  yon 

mean  ?" 

1 68 


THE        fr  I  L   D        OLIVE 

"I  don't  want  to  give  all  my  life  to  it,  because — I  may  at 
well  tell  you  that,  too,  while  I'm  about  it — becane  I'm 
engaged  to  some  one  else." 

"Oh,  Evie!" 

Miriam  went  back,  like  a  peison  defeated,  to  tlie  chak 
from  which  she  had  just  risen,  while  Evie  buried  kerself 
in  the  depths  of  a  closet,  where  she  remained  long  enough, 
as  she  hoped,  to  let  Miriam's  first  astonishment  subside. 
On  coming  out  she  assumed  a  virtuous  tone. 

"You  see  now  why  I  simply  had  to  break  with  Billy.  I 
couldn't  possibly  keep  the  two  things  going  together — ai 
some  girls  would.  I'm  one  of  those  who  do  right,  whatever 
happens.  It's  very  hard  for  me — but  if  people  would  ooiy 
be  a  little  more  sympathetic — " 

It  was  some  minutes  before  Miriam  knew  just  what  to 
say.  Even  when  she  began  to  speak  she  doubted  her 
capacity  for  making  herself  understood. 

"Evie  darling,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  as  for  a  child's 
comprehension,  "this  is  a  very  serious  matter.  I  don't 
think  you  realize  how  serious  it  is.  If  you  find  you  don't 
love  Billy  well  enough,  of  course  you  must  ask  him  to  release 
you.  I  should  be  sorry  for  that,  but  I  shouldn't  blame  you. 
But  until  you've  done  it  you  can't  give  your  word  to  anf 
one." 

"Well,  I  must  say  I  never  heard  anything  like  that," 
Evie  declared,  indignantly.  "You  do  have  the  strangest 
ideas,  Miriam.  Dear  mamma  used  to  say  so,  too.  I  trj 
to  defend  you,  but  you  make  it  difficult  for  me,  I  must  say. 
I  never  knew  any  one  like  you  for  making  things  mote 
complicated  than  they  need  be.  You  talk  of  my  asking 
Billy  to  release  me  when  I  released  myself  long  ago — in  my 
own  mind.  That's  where  I  have  to  look.  I  must  do 
169 


,.  ■•">>: 


Wkm 


I 


11 

If 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

things    according   to   my   conscience  — and  when   thst't 

dear—"  .  ,  , 

"  It  isn't  only  a  case  of  conscience,  dear;  it  s  one  of  com- 
mon sense.  Conscience  has  a  wa >  A  sometimes  misakmg 
the  issue,  whereas  common  sense  c  -  "generally  be  trusted 

to  be  right."  »»•  •        i 

"Of  course,  if  you're  going  to  .  'i.  that  way,  Miriam,  1 
don't  see  what's  left  for  me  to  ansv,er;  but  it  doesn't  sound 
ve./  reverent,  I  must  say.  I'm  trying  to  look  at  things  m 
the  highest  light,  and  it  doesn't  strike  me  as  the  highest 
light  to  be  unkind  to  Billy  when  I  needn't  be.  If  you 
think  I  ought  to  treat  him  cruelly  you  must  keep  your 
opinion,  but  I  know  you'll  excuse  me  if  I  keep  mine. 

She  carried  her  head  loftily  as  she  bore  another  gown 
into  the  adjoining  darkness,  and  Miriam  waited  patiently 
till  she  emerged  again. 

"Does  your  other— I  hardly  know  what  to  call  him- 
does  your  other  fiance  know  about  Billy  ?" 

"Why  on  earth  should  he  ?  What  good  would  that  do  f 
It  will  be  all  over-I  mean  about  Billy-beforc  I  announce 
my  second  engagement,  and  as  the  one  to  Billy  will  never 
be  announced  at  all  there's  no  use  in  saying  anything  about 

k." 

"  But  suppose  Billy  himself  finds  out  ?" 

"  Billy  won't  find  out  anything  whatever  until  I  get  ready 
to  let  him."  . 

The  finality  of  this  retort  reduced  Miriam  to  silence. 
She  allowed  some  minutes  to  pass  before  saying,  with  some 

hesitation:  .    .   ,,i 

"I  suppose  you  don't  mind  my  knowing— who  it  is  f 
Evie  was  prepared  for  this  question  and  answered  it 

promptly. 

170 


THE        IF   I  L   D        OLIVE 

"I  sha'n't  mind  your  knowing — by-and-by.  I  want  you 
to  meet  him  first.  When  you've  once  seen  him,  I  know 
you'll  be  more  just  to  me.  Till  then  I'm  willing  to  ''o  on 
being — misunderstood." 

During  the  three  more  weeks  that  intervened  before  the 
family  dinner  Miriam  got  no  further  light  on  Evie's  love- 
affairs.  She  purposely  asked  ,  '  questions  through  fear 
of  seeming  to  force  the  girl's  confidence,  but  she  obtained 
some  relief  from  thinking  that  the  rival  suitor  could  be  no 
other  than  a  certain  young  Graham,  of  whom  she  had  heard 
much  from  Evie  during  the  previous  year.  His  chances 
then  had  stood  higher  than  Billy  Merrow's;  and  nothing 
was  more  possible  than  a  discovery  on  Evie's  part  that  she 
liked  him  the  better  of  the  two.  It  was  a  situation  that 
called  for  sympathy  for  Billy,  but  not  otherwise  for  grave 
anxiety,  so  that  Miriam  could  wait  quietly  for  further  out- 
pourings of  Evie's  heart,  and  give  her  mind  to  the  mysteries 
incidental  to  the  girl's  social  presentation  to  the  world. 

Of  the  ceremonies  attendant  on  this  event  the  "killing 
off"  of  the  family  was  the  one  Miriam  dreaded  most.  It 
was  when  she  came  within  the  periphery  of  this  powerful, 
meritorious,  well-to-do  circle,  representing  whatever  was 
most  honorable  in  New  York,  that  she  chiefly  felt  herself 
an  alien.  She  could  scarcely  have  explained  herself  in  this 
respect,  since  many  of  the  clan  had  been  kind  to  her,  and 
none  had  ever  shown  her  incivility.  It  was  when  she  con- 
fronted them  in  the  mass,  when  she  saw  their  solidarity, 
their  mutual  esteem,  their  sum  total  of  wealth,  talents,  and 
good  works,  that  she  grew  conscious  of  the  difference  of 
essence  between  herself  and  them.  Not  one  of  them  but 
had  the  right  to  the  place  he  sat  in!-  -a  right  maintained 


I* 


THE 


WILD 


OLIVE 


by  himielf,  but  acquired  by  his  fathers  before  hin»— not 
one  of  them  but  was  living  in  the  strength  of  some  respect- 
able tradition  of  which  he  could  be  proud  1  Endsleigh  Jar- 
rott's  father,  for  example,  had  been  a  banker,  Reginald 
Pole's  the  president  of  a  university,  Rupert  Colfax's  a 
judge;  and  it  was  something  like  that  with  them  all.  In 
the  midst  of  so  much  that  was  classified,  certified,  and  regu- 
lar she  was  as  obviously  a  foreign  element  as  a  fly  in  amber. 
She  came  in  as  the  ward  of  Philip  Wayne,  who  himself  was 
a  new-comer  and  an  intruder,  since  he  entered  merely  as 
"  poor  Gertrude's  second  husband,"  by  a  marriage  which 
they  all  considered  a  mistake. 

With  the  desire  to  be  as  unobtrusive  as  .possible,  she 
dressed  herself  in  black,  without  ornament  of  any  kmd, 
unaware  of  the  fact  that  with  her  height  of  figure,  her  grace 
of  movement,  her  ivory  tint,  and  that  expression  of  hers 
which  disconcerted  people  because  it  was  first  appealing 
and  then  proud,  she  would  be  more  than  ever  conspicuous 
against  the  background  of  brilliant  toilets,  fine  jewels,  and 
assured  manners  which  the  family  would  produce  for  the 
occasion  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  was  a  perceptible 
hush  in  the  hum  of  talk  as  she  made  her  entry  into  the 
drawinp-room,  ostensibly  led  by  Philip  Wayne,  but  really 
leading  him.  As  she  paused  near  'Iir  i];or,  half  timid,  half 
bewildered,  looking  for  her  hostess,  J  did  not  help  her  to 
feel  at  ease  to  see  Mrs.  Endsleigh  Jarrott— a  Rubens  Maria 
de  Mcdict  in  white  satin  and  pearls— raise  her  lorgnette 
and  call  on  a  tall  young  man  who  stood  beside  her  to  take 
a  look.  There  was  no  time  to  distinguish  anything  further 
before  Miss  Jarrott  glided  up,  with  mincing  graciousness, 
to  shake  hnnds. 

"How  do  you  do!    How  do  you  do!    So  glad  you've 
172 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

come.  I  think  you  must  know  nearly  every  one  here,  lo  I 
needn't  introduce  any  one.  I  hardly  ever  introduce.  It'» 
funny,  isn't  it?  They  say  it's  an  English  custom  not  to 
introduce,  but  I  don't  do  it  just  by  nature.  I  wonder  why 
I  shouldn't  ? — but  I  never  do — or  almost  never.  So  if  you 
don't  happen  to  know  your  neighbors  at  table  just  speak. 
It  was  Evie  who  arranged  where  every  one  was  to  sit.  / 
don't  know.  They  say  that's  English,  too — just  to  speak. 
I  believe  it's  quite  a  recognized  thing  in  London  to  say,  'Ii 
this  your  bread  or  mine  ?'  and  then  you  know  each  other. 
Isn't  it  funny?  Now  I  think  we're  all  here.  Will  you 
take  in  Miriam,  Mr.  Wayne?" 

A  hasty  embrace  from  Evie — an  angelic  vision  in  white — 
was  followed  by  a  few  words  of  greeting  from  Charles  Con- 
quest, after  which  Miriam  saw  Miss  Jarrott  take  the  arm 
of  Bishop  Endslcigh,  and  the  procession  began  to  move. 

At  table  Miriam  was  glad  of  the  dim,  rose-colored  lij^^ht. 
It  offered  her  a  seclusion  into  which  she  could  withdraw, 
tending  her  ser%ices  to  Wayne.  She  was  glad,  too,  that 
the  family,  having  so  much  to  say  to  itself,  paid  her  no 
special  attention  She  was  sufficiently  occupied  in  aiding 
the  helpless  blind  man  htside  her,  and  repeating  for  his  bene- 
fit the  names  of  their  ftllow-guests.  As  the  large  party 
talked  at  the  top  of  its  lungs,  Miriam's  quiet  voice,  with  its 
liquid,  almost  contralto,  qu.ility,  reached  her  companion's 
ears  unheard  by  others.  She  bejran  with  Bishop  Ends- 
leigh,  who  was  on  Miss  Jarrott's  ripht.  Then  came  Mrs. 
Stephen  Colfax;  after  her  Mr.  Endskifih  Jarrott,  who  had 
on  his  right  Mrs.  Reginald  Pole.  Mrs.  Pole's  neighbor  was 
Charles  Conquest,  whom  she  shared  with  Mrs.  Rodney 
Wrenn.  Now  and  then  Wayne  hi:iiself  would  give  proof 
of  that  increased  acuteness  in  his  hearing  of  which  he  had 
12  '73 


MICROCOPY   RESOLUTION   TEST   CHART 

lANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CH«»T  No    21 


1.0     ,'rllM  ill" 
I  J?  Ilia 

I.I   I  ^  m 


A     APPLIED  IIVHGE     In 


'653   East   Mom   Sire. 
f^ochester,    Ne«   Tctk         t*t 
(716)   462  -  0300  -  Ptione 
(^'161   288  -  5989  -  Fq. 


THE        WILD        0    L    I   F   E 


'  \: 


spoken  more  than  once  since  his  bhndncss  had  become 
total.  "Colfax  Yorke  is  here,"  he  observed  at  one  time. 
"I  hear  his  voice.  He's  sitting  on  our  side  of  the  table." 
"Mrs.  Endsleigh  Jarrott  is  next  but  one  to  you,"  he  said 
at  .mother  time.  "She's  airing  her  plans  for  the  recon- 
struction of  New  York  society." 

So  for  a  while  they  kept  one  another  in  small  talk,  affect- 
ing the  same  sort  of  vivacity  that  obtained  around  them. 
It  was  not  till  dinner  was  half  over  that  he  asked  in  an 
undertone: 

"Who  is  your  neighbor?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  managed  to  whisper  back.  "He's 
so  taken  up  with  Mrs.  Endsleigh  Jarrott  that  he  hasn't  looked 
this  way.     I  don't  think  he's  any  member  of  the  family." 

"He  must  be,"  Wayne  replied.  "I  know  his  voice.  I 
have  some  association  with  it,  but  just  what  I  can't  re- 
member." 

Miriam  herself  listened  to  hear  him  speak,  catching  only 
an  irrelevant  word  or  two. 

"He  sounds  English,"  she  said  then. 

"No,  he  isn't  English.  That's  not  my  association.  It's 
curious  how  the  mind  acts.  Since  I  became — since  my 
sight  failed — my  memory  instinctively  brings  me  voices 
instead  of  faces,  when  I  want  to  recall  anything.  Aren't 
you  going  to  speak  to  him?  You've  got  the  formula:  Is 
this  your  bread  or  mine  f" 

"It's  very  convenient,  but  I  don't  think  I  shall  use  it." 

"He'd  like  you  to,  I  know.  I  heard  him  say  to  Mrs. 
Endsleigh  Jarrott  as  we  came  in — while  Queenie  Jarrott 
was  talking — that  you  were  'he  most  strikingly  beautiful 
woman  he  had  ever  seen  in  his  life.  How's  that  for  a 
compliment  from  a  perfect  stranger  f" 
174 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

"I  certainly  sha'n't  speak  to  him  now.  A  man  who 
could  say  thai  to  Mrs.  Endsleigh,  after  having  seen  her, 
must  be  wofully  wanting  in  tact." 

Mary  Pole  on  Wayne's  right  claimed  his  attention  and 
Miriam  was  left  her  own  mistress.  Almost  at  once  her 
attention  was  arrested  by  hearing  Mrs.  Endsleigh  Jurrott 
saying  in  that  appealing  voice  which  she  counted  as  the 
secret  of  her  success  with  men: 

"Now  do  give  me  your  frank  opinion,  Ivir.  Strange. 
You  don't  know  how  much  I  should  like  it.  It's  far  from 
my  idea  that  we  should  slavishly  copy  London.  You  know 
that,  don't  you?  We've  an  entirely  different  stock  of 
materials  to  work  with.  But  I'm  firmly  convinced  that  by 
working  on  the  London  model  we  should  make  society  far 
more  general,  far  more  representative,  and  far— oh,  jar — 
more  interesting!  Now,  what  do  you  think?  Do  give 
me  your  frank  opinion." 

Mr.  Strange!  Her  own  name  was  sufficiently  uncommotj 
to  cause  Miriam  to  glance  sidewise,  in  her  rapid,  fugitive 
way,  at  the  person  who  bore  it.  His  face  was  turned  from 
her  as  he  bent  toward  Mrs.  Jarrott,  but  again  she  heard 
his  voice   and  this  time  more  distinctly. 

"I'm  afraid  my  opinion  wouldn't  be  of  much  value. 
Nevertheless,  I  know  you  must  be  right." 

"Now  I'm  disappointed  in  you,"  Mrs.  Jarrott  said,  with 
pretty  reproachfulness.  "You're  not  taking  me  seriously 
Oh,  I  see,  I  see.  You're  just  an  ordinary  man,  after  all; 
when  I  thought  for  a  minute  you  might  be — well,  a  little 
different.  Do  take  some  of  that  asparagus,"  she  added 
in  another  tone.     "It's  simply  delicious." 

It  was  while  he  was  helping  himself  to  this  delicacy  that 
Miriam  got  the  first  clear  view  of  his  face,  half  turned  as 
>7S 


THE        fV  I  L   D        OLIVE 


'     i 


it  was  toward  her.  He  seemed  aware  that  she  was  observing 
hini,  for  during  the  space  of  some  seconds  he  held  the  silver 
implements  idle  in  his  hands,  while  he  lifted  his  eyes  to 
meet  hers.  The  look  they  exchanged  was  significant  and 
long,  and  yet  she  was  never  quite  sure  that  she  reognized 
him  then.  For  the  minute  she  was  only  conscious  of  a 
sudden,  inward  shock,  to  which  she  wap  unable  to  ascribe 
a  cause.  Something  had  happened,  thjugh  she  knew  not 
what.  Havi"g  in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  regained  her 
self-control,  •  could  only  suppose  that  it  was  a  repetition 
of  that  unreasoning  panic  which  had  now  and  then  brought 
her  to  the  verge  of  fainting,  when  by  chance,  in  London, 
Paris,  or  New  York,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  tall 
figure  that  carried  her  imagination  back  to  the  cabin  in  the 
Adirondacks.  She  had  always  thought  that  he  nT'jht 
appear  in  some  crowd  and  take  her  by  surprise.  She  had 
never  expected  to  find  him  in  a  gathering  that  could  be  called 
social.  Still  less  had  she  looked  to  meet  him  like  this,  with 
Philip  Wayne  who  had  sentenced  him  to  death  not  three 
feet  away.     The  mere  idea  was  preposterous.     And  yet — 

She  glanced  at  him  again.  He  was  listening  attentively 
while  Mrs.  Endsleigh  Jarrott's  voice  ran  on: 

"People  say  our  society  has  no  traditions.  It  has  tradi- 
tions. It  has  the  traditions  of  the  country  village,  and  it 
has  never  outgrown  them.  We're  nothing  but  the  country 
village  writ  large.  New  York,  Philadelphia,  Boston,  Balti- 
more— we're  the  country  village  over  again,  with  its  narrow- 
ness, its  sets,  its  timidity,  all  writ  so  large  that  they  hide 
anything  like  a  real  society  from  us.  Now  isn't  it  so,  Mr. 
Strange  ?  Don't  be  afraid  to  give  me  your  frank  opinion^ 
because  that's  what  I'm  asking  for." 

Miriam  herself  midc  an  effort  to  seem  to  be  doing  som» 
176 


THE        tV  I  L   D        OLIVE 

thing  that  would  enable  her  to  sit  unnoticed.  Sue  was  glad 
that  Wayne  was  engaged  by  Mary  Ptle  so  that  he  couid  no 
longer  listen  to  the  voice  that  wakened  his  recollections. 
She  looked  again  at  the  tall,  carefully  dressed  man  beside 
her,  so  different  in  all  his  externals  from  anything  she  im- 
agined Norrie  Ford  could  ever  become.  Norrie  Ford  was 
an  outlaw  and  this  was  a  man  of  the  wo.ld.  She  felt  her- 
self being  reassured — and  yet  disappointed.  Her  first  feel- 
ing of  faintness  passed  away,  enablng  her  to  face  the 
situation  with  greater  calm.  Up  '~r  cr-  of  the  energetic 
animation  characteristic  of  evei_  lei  .n  dinner-party  at 
which  the  guests  are  intimate,  sh>.  nad  leisure  to  think  over 
the  one  or  two  hints  that  wer;;  significant.  Now  and  then  a 
remark  was  addressed  to  her  across  the  table  to  which  she 
managed  to  return  a  reply  sufficiently  apt  to  give  her  the  ap- 
pearance of  being  in  touch  with  what  was  going  on  around 
her;  but  in  reality  she  was  taking  in  the  fact,  with  the 
spirit  rather  than  the  mind,  that  Norrie  Ford  had  n  turned. 

She  never  understood  just  how  and  when  that  assurance 
came  to  her.  It  was  certainly  not  by  actual  recognition  of 
his  features,  as  it  was  not  by  putting  together  the  few  data 
that  came  under  her  observation.  Thinking  it  over  in 
after  years,  she  could  only  say  that  she  "just  found  herself 
knowing  it."  He  was  there — beside  her.  Of  that  she 
had  no  longer  a  doubt. 

Her  amazement  did  not  develop  all  at  once.  Indeed, 
the  position  had  an  odd  naturalness,  like  something  in  a 
dream.  The  element  of  impossibility  in  what  had  hap- 
pened was  so  great  that  for  the  time  being  her  mind  refused 
to  meet  it.  She  was  only  aware  of  that  vague  sense  of 
satisfaction,  of  inward  peace,  that  comes  when  long-desired 
ends  have  been  fulfilled. 

«77 


I 


THE        ly  I   L    D 


OLIVE 


The  mai.i  fact  being  accepted,  her  outer  faculties  could 
respond  to  the  call  that  a  dinner-party  makes  on  its  least 
important  member.     When  the  conversation  at  her  end  of 
the  table  became  general  she  took  her  part,  and  later  en- 
gaged in  a  three-cornered  discussion  with  Waxne  and  Mary 
Pole  on  the  subject  of  an  endowed  theatre;  but  all  the  while 
her  subconscious  mind  was  struggling  for  a  theory  to  ac- 
count for  Morrie  Ford's  presence  in  that  particular  room 
and  in  that  unexpected  company.     The  need  of  some  im- 
mediate, plausible  reason  for  so  astounding  an  occurrence 
deadened  her  attention  to  the  comparative  quietness  with 
which  she  accepted  his  coming— now  that  she  had  regained 
her  self-control,  although  she  was  conscious  of  stirrmgs  of 
wild  joy  in  this  evidence  that  he  had  been  true  to  her. 
Had  she  recalled  what  she  had  said  to  him  eight  years  ago 
as  to  the  Argentine,  and  the  "very  good  firm  to  work  for," 
she  would  have  had  an  easy  clew,  but  that  had  passed  from 
her  mind  almost  with  the  utterance— certainly  with  his  de- 
parture.    He  had  gone  out  into  the  world,  leaving  no  more 
trace  behind  him  than  the  bird  that  has  flown  southward. 
Not  once   during  the   intervening  years   did   the  thought 
cross  her  mind  that  words  which  she  had   spoken  nearly 
at  haphazard  could  have   acted  as   a   guide  to  him,  while 
still   less    did   she   dream   that   they   could  have   led   him 
into   the  very  seat   beside   her  which   he   was   occupying 

now. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  there,  and  for  the  present  she  could 
dispense  with  the  knowledge  of  the  adventures  that  had 
brought  him.  He  was  there,  and  that  was  the  reason  of 
his  coming  in  itself.  He  had  hewn  his  way  throuc;h  all  diffi- 
culties to  reach  her— as  Siegfried  came  to  Biunhild,  over 
the  mountains  and  through  the  fire.  He  had  found  the 
178 


11 'i  i 

I  ■li  ' 


THE        WILD         PL    I   V   E 

means— both  the  means  and  the  daring— to  enter  and  make 
himself  accepted  in  her  own  world,  her  own  circle,  her  own 
family— in  so  far  as  she  liad  a  family—  ind  to  sit  right 
down  at  her  side. 

She  was  not  surprised  :  .  She  assured  herself  of  that. 
At  the  very  instant  whei.  <.iic  was  saying  to  Maiy  Pole, 
across  Philip  Wayne's  white  waistcoat,  that  she  had  always 
thought  of  endowed  in.stitutions  of  creative  art  as  belonging 
to  the  races  of  weaker  individual  initiative— at  the  very 
instant  when  she  was  saying  that,  she  was  repeating  to  her- 
self that  the  directness,  the  high-handedness,  and  the  suc- 
cess of  this  kind  of  exploit  was  exactly  what  she  would  have 
expected  of  Norrie  Ford.  It  was  what  she  haj  expected  of 
him— in  one  form  or  another.  It  was  with  a  sense  of  in- 
ward pride  that  she  remembered  that  her  faith  in  him  had 
never  wavered,  even  though  it  was  not  until  Conquest 
forced  her  that  she  had  confessed  the  fact.  She  glanced  at 
Conquest  across  the  table  now  and  caught  his  eye.  He 
smiled  at  her  and  raised  his  glass,  as  though  to  drink  to 
her  health.  She  smiled  in  return,  daring'y,  triumphantly, 
as  she  would  not  have  ventured  to  do  an  hour  ago.  She 
could  sec  him  flush  with  pleasure — a  r.^re  occurrence — at 
her  unusual  graciousness,  while  she  was  only  rejoicing  in 
her  escape  from  him.  Under  the  shadow  of  the  tall  man 
beside  her,  who  had  achieved  the  impossible  in  order  to  be 
loyal  to  her,  she  felt  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she 
had  found  a  shelter.  It  mattered  nothing  that  he  was  en- 
grossed with  Mrs.  Endsleigh  Jarrott,  and  that,  after  the 
one  glance,  he  had  not  turned  toward  her  again;  she  was 
sure  he  knew  that  she  understood  him,  and  that  he  recog- 
nized her  power  to  wait  in  patience  to  have  the  mystery 
explained. 

179 


it 

'1 


rm 


\   •! 


If 

'1: 


THE       WILD        OLIVE 

In  the  drawing-room  he  was  introduced  to  her.  Mis» 
Jarrott  led  him  up  and  made  the  presentation. 

"Miss  Strange,  I  want  you  to  know  Mr.  Strange.  Now 
isn't  that  funny  f  You  can't  think  how  many  times  I've 
thought  how  interesting  it  would  be  to  see  you  two  meet. 
It's  so  unusual  to  have  the  same  name,  especially  when  it's 
such  a  strange  name  as  yours.  There's  a  pun.  I  simply  can't 
help  making  them.  My  brother  says  I  inherited  all  the 
sense  of  humor  in  the  family.  I  don't  know  why  I  do  it, 
but  I  always  see  a  joke.     Can  you  tell  me  why  I  do  it  ?" 

Neither  Strange  nor  Miriam  knew  what  replies  they 
made,  but  a  conversation  of  some  sort  went  on  for  a  minute 
or  two,  after  which  Miss  Jarrott  whisked  him  away  to 
present  him  to  some  one  else.  When  he  had  gone  Miriam 
was  left  with  a  feeling  of  spiritual  chill.  While  it  was  \m- 
possible  to  betray  a  previous  acquaintance  before  Miss 
Jarrott,  there  had  been  nothing  whatever  in  his  bearing 
to  respond  to  the  recognition  in  hers.  There  was  something 
that  might  have  been  conveyed  from  mind  'O  mind  without 
risk,  and  he  had  not  used  the  opportunity.  In  as  far  as  he 
addressed  her  at  all  it  had  been  through  Miss  Jarrott,  and 
he  had  looked  around  her  and  over  her  rather  than  directly 
into  her  eyes. 

During  the  rest  of  the  evening  she  caught  glimpses  of 
him  only  in  the  distance,  talking  now  to  one  member  of 
the  family,  now  to  another.  It  was  clear  tkit  Miss  Jarrott 
was,  in  a  way,  showing  him  off,  and  that  he  was  received 
as  some  one  of  importance.  She  admired  the  coolness  vrith 
which  he  carried  himself,  while  her  inherited  instincts  gave 
her  a  curious  thrill  of  content  that  these  law-making,  law- 
keeping  people  should  be  duped. 

She  hoped  he  would  find  an  occasion  for  passing  again 
i8o 


THE        WILD 


OLIVE 


!n  her  dirt'Ction.  If  she  could  have  only  a  word  with  him 
it  might  help  to  make  the  situation  intelligible.  But  he  did 
not  return,  and  presently  she  noticed,  in  looking  about  the 
room,  that  he  had  disappeared.  She,  too,  was  eager  to  be 
gone.  Only  in  solitude  could  she  get  control  of  the  surging 
thoughts,the  bewildering  suggestions, the  contradictory  sup- 
positions that  crowded  it  on  her.  She  saw  how  useless  itwasto 
trytobuilda  tb'ory  without  at  least  one  positive  fact  to  go  on. 

It  was  ji:it  as  they  were  departing  that  her  opportunity 
to  ask  a  question  came.  They  had  said  their  good-nights 
to  Miss  Jarrott  and  were  in  the  hall,  waiting  for  tie  (ootman 
to  call  their  carriage,  when  Evie,  whom  they  had  not  wanted 
to  disturb,  came  fluttering  after  them.  She  was  flushed  but 
radiant,  anu  flung  herself  into  Miriam's  arms. 

"You  dear  thing!  I  haven't  had  time  to  say  a  v/ord  to 
you  or  Popsey  Wayne  the  entire  evening.  But  you'll  excuse 
me, won't  you  ?  I've  had  to  be  civil  to  them  all — do  you  see? — 
and  do  them  up  well.  I  knew  you  wouldn't  mind.  I  want- 
ed you  to  have  a  good  time,  but  I'm  afraid  you  haven't." 

"Oh  yes,"  Miriam  said,  disengaging  herself  from  the 
girl's  embrace.  "  It's  been  wonderful — it  really  has.  But, 
Evie  dear,"  she  whispered,  drawing  her  away  from  the  group 
of  ladies  who  stood  cloaked  and  hooded,  also  waiting  for 
their  carriages,  "tell  me — ^who  is  that  Mr.  Strange  who 
sat  next  to  me  ? " 

Evie's  eyes  went  heavenward,  and  she  took  on  a  look  of 
rapture. 

"I  hope  you  liked  him." 

"  I  didn't  have  much  chance  to  see.  But  why  do  you  hope 
itf" 

"Because — don't  you  see?  Oh,  surely  you  must  see — 
because — he's  the  one." 

181 


XV 


.XLIGHTENMENT  came  to  her  m  rfie 
carriage  while  she  was  driving  homeward. 
During  the  five  or  ten  minutes  since  Evie 
had  spoken  she,  Miriam,  had  been  sitting 

still  and  upright  in  the  darkness,  making  no 

further  attempt  to  see  reason  through  this  succession  of 
bewilderments  from  sheer  inability  to  contend  against  them. 
For  the  time  being,  at  any  rate,  the  struggle  was  too  much 
for  her.  The  issues  raised  by  Evie's  overwhelmmg  an- 
nouncement were  so  confusing  that  she  must  postpone  their 
consideration.  She  must  postpone  everything  but  her  own 
tumultuous  passion,  which  had  to  be  faced  and  mastered 
mstantly.  She  was  fighting  with  herself,  with  her  own 
wild  inward  cries  of  protest,  anger,  jealousy,  and  self-pity, 
trying  to  distinguish  each  from  the  others  and  to  silence  it 
by  appeal  to  her  years  of  romantic  folly,  when  suddenly 
Wayne  spoke,  in  the  cheery  tone  of  a  man  who  has  unex- 
pectedly passed  a  pleasant  evening. 

"I  had  a  nice  long  chat  with  the  Great  Unknown,  who 
was  sitting  beside  you,  when  the  ladies  left  the  dining-room. 
Who  do  you  think  he  is  ?" 

After  the  shocks  of  the  last  two  hours,  she  was  prepared 
to  hear  Wayne  tell  her,  in  an  offhand  way,  that  it  was  Nome 
Ford.     Nevertheless,  she  summoned  what  was  left  of  her 
Munned  faculties  and  did  her  best  to  speak  carefully- 
182 


THE 


fV  I  L    D        OLIVE 


"I  heard  'hem  call  him  Mr.  Strange—" 
"Odd  I..  '  was,  wasn't  it?     But  it  isn't  such  a  very 
uttcommon  •    me.     I've  met  other  Stranges — " 
"Oh  yts.     So  have  1." 

"Well,  who  do  you  think  he  is?  Why,  he's  Stephens 
and  Jarrott's  new  man  in  New  York.  He's  taken  Jenkins's 
place.  You  remember  Jenkin.s,  don't  you?  That  little 
man  with  a  lisp.  I  had  a  nice  long  chat  with  him— Strange, 
I  mean.  He  tells  me  he's  a  New-Yorker  by  birth,  but 
that  he  went  out  to  the  Argentine  after  his  father  failed  m 
business.  Well,  he  wn't  fail  in  business,  /  bet  a  penny. 
He's  tremendously  enthusiastic  over  the  Argentine,  too. 
Showed  he  had  his  head  put  on  the  right  way  when  he  went 
there.  Wondei.''ul  country  — the  United  States  of  South 
America  some  people  call  it.  We're  missing  our  oppor- 
tunities out  there.  Great  volume  of  trade  flowing  to  Europe 
of  which  we  had  almost  the  monopoly  at  one  time.  1  had 
a  nice  long  chat  with  him. 

Her  tired  emotions  received  a  new  surprise  as  Wayne's 
words  directed  her  thoughts  to  the  morning  when  she  had 
made  to  Ford  the  first  suggestion  of  the  Argentine.  She 
had  not  precisely  forgotten  it;  she  had  only  thought  it  of 
too  little  importance  to  dwell  on.  She  remembered  that 
she  had  considered  the  idea  practical  till  she  had  expressed 
it,  but  that  his  opposition  had  seemed  to  turn  it  into  the 
impossible.  She  had  never  supposed  that  he  might  have 
actet"  on  it— not  ai.y  more  than  she  had  expected  him  to 
retain  her  father's  name  once  he  had  reached  a  place  of 
safety.  In  spite  of  the  suddeii..ess  with  which  her  dreams 
regarding  him  had  been  dispelled,  it  gave  her  a  thrill  of 
satisfaction  to  think  that  the  word  which,  in  a  sense,  had 
created  him  had  been  hers.  To  her  fierce  jealousy,  with 
183 


:li 


THE        IV  I    L   D        OLIVE 


\  'J 


vrhich  her  pride  was  wrestling  even  now,  there  was  a  meas- 
ure of  comfort  in  the  knowledge  that  he  could  never  be 
quite  free  from  her,  that  his  existence  was  rixrtcd  in  her  own. 

"Queenie  Jarrott  tells  me,"  Wayne  meandered  on,  "that 
her  brother  thinks  <'cry  highly  of  this  young  man.  It  seems 
that  his  business  abilities  are  quite  remarkable,  and  they 
fancy  he  looks  like  Henry— the  eldest  of  :hc  boys  who  died. 
It's  extraordinary  how  his  voice  reminds  me  of  .some  one — 
1  don't  know  who.     It  might  be—     But  then  again—" 

"His  voice  is  like  a  thousand  other  voices,"  she  thought 
it  well  to  say,  "just  as  he  looks  like  a  thousand  other  men. 
He's  one  of  those  rather  tall,  rather  good-looking,  rather 
well-dressed  youngish  men — not  really  young— of  whom 
you'll  pass  twenty  within  a  mile  any  day  in  I'ifth  Avenue, 
and  who  are  as  thick  as  soldiers  on  a  battle-hcid  at  the 
lower  end  of  Broadway." 

With  the  data  Wayne  had  given  her  she  worked  out  the 
main  lines  of  the  story  during  the  night;  but  it  was  not 
until  she  had  done  so  that  its  full  significance  appeared  to 
her.  Having  grasped  that,  she  could  scarcely  wait  for  day- 
light in  order  to  go  to  Evie,  and  yet  when  morning  came 
she  abandoned  that  course  as  impolitic.  Reflection  showed 
her  that  her  struggle  must  be  less  with  Evie  than  with  Ford, 
while  she  judged  that  he  himself  would  lose  no  time  in 
putting  the  battle  in  array.  He  must  see  as  plainly  as  she 
did  that  she  stood  like  an  army  across  his  path,  and  that 
he  must  either  retreat  before  her  or  show  fight.  She  be- 
lieved he  would  do  the  latter  and  do  it  soon.  She  thought 
it  probable  that  he  would  appear  that  very  day,  and  that 
her  wisest  plan  was  to  await  his  opening  attack.  The 
necessity,  so  unexpectedly  laid  upon  htr,  of  defending  the 
184 


THE        ly  I   L    D        O   LIVE 

right  deflected  her  mind  from  dwelling  too  bitterly  on  hw 
own  disillusiunin);. 

The  morning  having  passed  without  a  sipn  from  him, 
the  made  her  arrangements  for  having  the  afternoon  undis- 
turbed, sending  Wayne  to  drive,  and  ordering  the  servantt 
to  admit  no  one  but  Mr.  Strange,  should  he  chance  to  call. 
Having  intrenched  herself  behind  the  fortification  of  the 
tea-table,  she  waited.  In  spite  of  her  preoccupation,  or 
rather  because  of  it,  she  purposely  read  a  book,  forcing  her- 
ielf  to  fix  her  attention  on  its  pages  in  order  to  have  her 
mind  free  from  preconceived  notic  is  as  to  how  she  must  act 
ind  what  she  must  say.  Her  single  concession  to  herself 
wat  to  put  on  a  nc-  and  becoming  house  dress,  v.'hose  rich 
tones  of  brown  an  mber  harmonized  with  her  ivory  color- 
ing, and  emphasized  the  clear-cut  distinction  of  her  features. 
Before  taking  up  her  position  she  surveyed  herself  with  the 
mournful  approval  which  the  war  -ir  about  to  fall  may  give 
to  the  perfection  of  his  equipmei. 

It  was  half-past  four  when  th^  servant  showed  him  in. 
His  formal  attire  seemed  to  her,  as  he  crossed  the  room, 
oddly  civilized  and  correct  after  her  recollections  of  him. 
Notwithstanding  her  dread  of  the  opening  minutes,  the 
meeting  passed  off  according  to  the  fixed  procedure  of  th« 
drawing-room.  It  was  a  relief  to  both  to  find  that  the 
acts  of  siiaking  hands  and  sitting  down  had  been  accom- 
plished with  matter-of-course  formality.  With  the  fa- 
miliar support  of  afternoon-call  conventions  difficult  topics 
could  be  treated  at  greater  ease. 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  find  you  at  home,"  he  began,  feeling 
it  to  be  a  safe  opening.     "I  was  almost  afraid — " 

"I  stayed  in  on  purpose,"  she  said,  frankly.  "I  thought 
you  might  come." 

185 


THE        fV  I  L   D        OLIVE 


"I  wasn't  sure  whether  or  not  you  knew  me  last  night — " 

"1  didn't  at  first.  I  really  hadn't  noticed  you,  though  I 
remembered  afterward  that  you  were  standing  with  Mrs. 
Endsleigh  Jarrott  when  Mr.  Wayne  and  I  came  into  the 
room.     I  wonder  now  if  you  recognized  me  ?" 

"Oh,  rather!  I  knew  you  were  going  to  be  there.  I've 
been  in  New  York  a  month." 

"Then  you  might  have  come  to  see  me  sooner." 

"Well,  you  see—" 

He  paused  and  colored,  trying  to  cover  up  his  embarrass- 
ment with  a  s.nile.  She  allowed  her  eyes  to  express  interro- 
gation, not  knowing  that  her  frank  gaze  diso  icerted  him. 
She  herself  went  back  so  eagerly  to  the  daj  3  when  he  was 
the  fugitive,  Norrie  Ford,  and  she  the  nameless  girl  who 
was  helping  him,  that  she  could  not  divine  hid  humiliation 
at  being  obliged  to  drop  his  mask.  Since  becoming  en- 
gaged to  Evie  Colfax  and  returning  to  New  York,  he  per- 
ceived more  clearly  than  ever  before  that  his  true  part  in  the 
world  was  that  of  the  respectable,  successful  man  of  business 
which  he  played  so  skilfully.  It  cost  him  an  effort  she  could 
have  no  reason  to  suspect  to  be  face  to  face  with  the  one 
person  in  the  world  who  knew  him  as  something  else. 

"You  see,"  he  began  again,  "I  had  to  consider  a  good 
many  things — naturally.  It  wouldn't  have  done  to  give 
any  one  an  idea  that  we  had  met  before." 

"No,  of  course  not.     But  last  night  you  might  have — " 

"Last  night  I  had  to  follow  the  same  tactics.  I  can't 
afford  to  run  risks.  It's  rather  painful,  it's  even  a  bit 
humiliating — " 

"I  can  imagine  that,  especially  here  in  Nev,'  York.     In 
out-of-the-way  places  it  must  be  different.     There  it  doesn't 
matter.     But  to  be  among  the  very  people  who — " 
1 86 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

"You  think  that  there  it  does  matter.  I  had  to  considir 
that.  I  had  to  make  it  plain  to  myself  that  there  was 
nothing  dishonorable  in  imposing  on  people  who  had  forced 
me  into  a  false  position.     I  don't  say  it's  pleasant—" 

"Oh,  I  know  it  can't  be  pleasant.  I  only  wondered  a 
httle,  as  I  saw  you  last  night,  why  you  let  yourself  be  placed 
m  a  position  that  made  it  necessary." 

"I  should  have  wondered  at  that  myself  a  year  ago.  I 
certainly  never  had  any  intention  of  doing  it.  It's  almost 
as  much  a  surprise  to  me  to  be  here  as  it  is  to  you  to  see  me. 
I  suppose  you  thought  I  would  never  turn  up  again." 

"No,  I  didn't  think  that.  On  the  contrary,!  thought 
you  would  turn  up — only  not  just  here." 

It  struck  him  that  she  was  emphasizing  that  point  for  a 
purpose— to  bring  him  to  another  point  still.  He  took  a 
few  seconds  to  reflect  before  deciding  that  he  would  follow 
her  lead  without  further  hanging  back. 

"I  shouldn't  have  returned  to  New  York  if  I  hadn't 
become  engaged  to  Miss  Colfax.  You  know  about  that, 
don't  you  ?     I  think  she  meant  to  tell  you." 

She  inclined  her  head  assentingly,  without  words.  He 
noticed  her  dark  eyes  resting  on  him  with  a  kind  of  pity. 
He  had  cherished  a  faint  hope— the  very  faintest— that  she 
might  welcome  what  he  had  just  said  sympathetically.  In 
the  few  minutes  during  which  she  remained  silent  that  hope 
died. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  gently,  "that  you  became  engaged 
to  Evie  before  knowing  who  she  was  .?" 

"I  fell  in  love  with  her  before  knowing  who  she  was.     I'm 
afraid  that  when  I  actually  asked  her  to  marry  me  I  had 
heard  all  there  was  to  learn." 
"Then  why  did  you  do  it  r" 
187 


I, 


'tor 


THE        WILD        G   L    I   F  E 


II 


!»  f    , 
•  t 

1    1 


!     ♦ 


He  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  movement  acquired 
bjr  long  residence  among  Latins.     His  smile  conveyed  tbc 
impossibility  of  explaining  himself  in  a  sentence. 
"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  if  you'd  like  to  hear." 
"I  should  like  it  very  much.     Remember,  I  know  nothing 
of  what  happened  after — after — " 

He  noticed  a  shade  of  confusion  in  her  manner,  and 
hastened  to  begin  his  narrative. 

Somewhat  to  her  surprise,  he  sketched  his  facts  in  lightly, 
but  dwelt  strongly  on  the  mental  and  moral  necessities  hit 
situation  forced  on  him.  He  related  with  some  detail  the 
formation  of  his  creed  of  conduct  in  the  dawn  on  Lake 
Champlain,  and  showed  her  that  according  to  its  tenets  he 
was  permitted  a  kind  of  action  that  in  other  men  might  be 
reprehensible.  He  came  to  the  story  of  Evie  last  of  all, 
and  allowed  her  to  see  how  dominating  a  part  Fate,  or  Pre- 
destination, had  played  in  evolving  it. 

"So  you  see,"  he  ended,  "it  was  too  late  then  to  do  any- 
thing— but  to  yield." 

"Or  withdraw,"  she  added,  softly. 
He  stared  at  her  a  moment,  his  body  bent  slightly  for- 
ward, his  elbows  resting  on  the  arms  of  his  chair.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  was  thinking  less  of  her  words  than 
of  her  beauty — so  much  nobler  in  type  than  he  remem- 
bered it. 

"Yes,"  he  returned,  quietly,  "I  can  see  that  it  would 
strike  you  in  that  way.     So  it  did  me — at  first.     But  I  had 
to  look  at  the  subject  all  round — " 
"I  don't  need  to  do  that." 

He  stared  at  her  again.  There  was  a  decision  in  her 
words  which  he  found  hard  to  reconcile  with  the  pity  IB 
ber  eyes  and  the  gentle  softness  of  her  smile. 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


"You  mean  that  you  don't  want  to  take  my — necessities 
— into  consideration." 

"I  mean  that  when  I  see  the  one  thing  right  to  do,  I 
don't  have  to  look  any  further." 

"The  one  thing  right  to  do — for  you  ? — or  for  me  ?" 

"There's  no  reason  why  I  should  intervene  at  all.  I 
look  to  you  to  save  me  from  the  necessity." 

He  hesitated  a  minute  before  deciding  whether  to  hedge 
or  to  meet  her  squarely. 

"By  giving  up  Evie  and — clearing  out,"  he  said,  with  a 
perceptible  hint  of  defiance. 

"I  shouldn't  lay  stress  on  your — clearing  out." 

"But  you  would  on  my  giving  up  Evie .'" 

"Don't  you  see,"  she  began,  in  an  explanatory  tone,  "I, 
in  my  own  person,  have  nothing  to  do  with  it .'  It  isn't 
for  me  to  say  this  should  be  done  or  that.  Vbu  can't 
imagine  how  hard  it  is  for  me  to  say  anything  at  all;  and 
if  I  speak,  it  isn't  as  myself — it's  as  the  voice  of  a  situation. 
You  must  understand  as  well  as  I  do  what  that  situation 
imposes." 

"But  I  don't  intend  that  a  situation  shall  impose  any- 
thing— on  mt.     I  mean  to  act  as  master — " 

"But  I'm  neither  so  independent  nor  so  strong — nor  is 
Evie.     You  don't  consider  her." 

"I  don't  have  to  consider  any  one.  When  I  make  Evie 
happy  I  do  all  that  can  be  asked  of  me." 

"No,  you  would  be  called  on  to  heefi  her  happy.  And 
she  couldn't  remain  happy  if  she  were  married  to  you.  It 
isn't  possible.  She  couldn't  live  with  you  any  more  than — 
than  a  humming-bird  could  live  with  a  hawk." 

They  both  smiled,  rather  nervously. 

"But  I'm  not  a  hawk,"  he  insisted.  "I'm  much  more 
13  189 


i 
i 

li 
%\ 


k 


I 


f '  ;•  2 


r  H£        WILD        OLIVE 

a  humming-biid  than  you  imagine.  You  think  me  some 
sort  of  creature  of  prey  because  you  beheve-that  I  d.d- 
what  I  was  accused  of—" 

The  circumstances  seemed  so  far  off  from  him  now,  so 
incongruous  with  what  he  had  become,  that  he  reverted  to 
th^.n  with  difficulty.  . . 

"I  don't  attach  any  importance  to  that,  she  saiU,  with 
a  tranquillity  that  startled  him.  "I  suppose  I  ought  to,  but 
I  never  have.  If  you  killed  your  uncle,  it  seems  to  me- 
vety  natural.  He  provoked  you.  He  deserved  it.  My 
father  would  have  done  it  certainly." 

"But  I  didn't,  you  see.    That  puts  another  color  on  the 

"it  doesn't  for  me.  And  it  doesn't,  as  it  affects  Eyie. 
Whe*'.er  you're  innocent  or  guilty— and  I  don't  say  I  thmk 
you  to  be  guilty-I've  never  thought  much  about  it-but 
whether  you're  guilty  or  not,  your  life  is  the  kmd  of  tragedy 
Evie  wouldn't  share.     It  would  kill  her." 

"It  wouldn't  kill  her,  if  she  didn't  know  anythmg  about 

'    "But  she  would  know.    Youcan't  keep  that  soi.  of  thing 

from  a  wife.    She  wouldn't  be  married  to  you  a  year  before 

she  had  discovered  that  you  were— a—" 
"An  escaped  convict.    Why  not  say  it  ?" 
"  I  wasn't  going  to  say  it.     But  at  least  she  would  -enow 

that  you  were  a  man  who  was  pretending  to  be— something 

that  he  wasn't."  ,  •      . 

"You  mean  an  impostor.  Well,  I've  already  explained 
to  you  that  I'm  an  impostor  only  because  Society  itself  has 
made  me  one.     I'm  not  to  blame — "  _ 

"I  quite  see  the  force  of  that.  But  Evie  wouldn  t. 
Don't  you  understand?  That's  my  point.  She  would 
190 


THE        WILD-OLIVE 

only  see  the  horror  of  it,  and  she  would  be  overwhelmed. 
It  wouldn't  matter  to  her  that  you  could  bring  forward 
arguments  in  your  own  defence.  She  wouldn't  be  capable 
of  understanding  them.  You  must  see  for  yourself  that 
mentally — and  spiritually — ^just  as  bodily — she's  as  fragile 
as  a  butterfly.  She  couldn't  withstand  a  storm.  She'd 
be  crushed  by  it." 

"I  don't  think  you  do  her  justice.  If  she  were  to  dis- 
cover— I  mean,  if  the  worst  were  to  come  to  the  worst — 
well,  you  can  see  how  it's  been  with  yourself.  You've 
known  from  the  beginning  all  there  is  to  know — and  yet — " 

"I'm  different." 

She  meant  the  brief  statement  to  divert  his  attention 
from  ';imself,  but  she  perceived  that  it  aroused  a  flash  of 
self-consciousness  in  both.  While  she  could  hear  herself 
saying  inwardly,  "I'd  rather  go  on  waiting  for  him — use- 
lessly," he  was  listening  to  a  silvery  voice,  as  it  lisped  the 
words,  "Dear  mamma  used  to  think  she  was  in  love  with 
some  one;  we  didn't  know  anything  about  it."  Each 
reverted  to  the  memory  of  the  lakeside  scene  in  which  he 
had  said,  "My  life  will  belong  to  you  ...  a  thing  for  you 
to  dispose  of  .  .  ."  and  each  was  afraid  that  the  other  was 
doing  so. 

All  at  once  she  saw  herself  as  she  fancied  he  must  •■ " ! 
her — a  woman  claiming  the  fulfilment  of  an  old  pron. 
the  payment  of  a  long-standing  debt.  He  must  think  she 
was  making  Evie  a  pretext  in  her  fight  for  her  own  hand. 
His  vow — if  it  was  a  vow — had  been  the  germ  of  so  much 
romance  in  her  mind  that  she  ascribed  it  to  a  place  in  the 
foreground  of  his.  In  all  she  was  saying  he  would  under- 
stand a  demand  on  her  part  that  he  should  make  it  good. 
Very  well,  then;  if  he  could  do  her  such  injustice,  he  must 
191 


';;! 


V,:  f 


THE        WILD        0   L  I   V  B 

do  it.     She  could  not  permit  the  fear  of  it  to  inspire  her  with 
moral  cowardice  or  deter  her  from  doing  what  was  right. 

Nevertheless,  it  helped  her  to  control  her  agitation  t . 
rise  and  ring  for  tea.  She  felt  the  need  of  some  common- 
place action  to  assure  herself  and  him  that  now,  at  last, 
she  was  outside  the  realm  of  the  romantic.  He  rose  as  she 
did,  to  forestall  her  at  the  bell;  and  as  the  servant  entered 
with  the  tray,  they  moved  together  into  the  embrisure  of 
the  wide  bay-window.  Down  below  the  autumn  colors 
were  fading,  while  leaves,  golden-yellow  or  blood-red,  were 
being  swiried  along  the  ground. 

"I  had  to  do  things  out  there"— his  nod  was  meant  to 
indicate  the  direction  of  South  America— "in  a  somewhat 
high-handed  manner,  and  I've  acquired  the  habit  of  it 
If  I'd  stuck  at  difficulties  I  shouldn't  have  got  anywhere." 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  as  though  to  ask  the  pur- 
port of  the  observation. 

"You  must  see  that  I'm  obliged  to  put  this  thing  through 
—on  Evie's  account  as  much  as  mine.  After  getting  her  to 
car-  for  me,  I  can't  desert  her  now,  whatever  happens." 

"She  wouldn't  suffer— after  a  while.  She'd  get  over  it. 
You  might  not,  but  she — " 

"  She  shall  not  get  over  it,  if  I  can  help  it.  How  can  you 
ask  me  to  let  her  ?"  ^ 

"Only  on  the  ground  that  you  love  her  well  enough. 
"Would  you  call  that  love?" 
"In  view  of  all  the  circumstances,  it  would  be  my  idea 

of  it." 

"Then  it  w-uldn't  be  mine.  The  only  love  I  under- 
stand is  the  love  that  fights  for  its  object,  in  the  face  of  all 
opposition." 

She  looked  at  him  a  minute  with  what  she  tried  to  make 
192 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

a  smile,  but  which  became  no  more  than  a  quivering  of 
the  lip  and  lashes. 

"I  hope  you  won't  fight,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  appeal, 
"because  it  would  have  to  be  with  me.  If  anything  could 
break  my  heart,  that  would." 

I     She  knew  how  near  to  self-betrayal  she  had  gone,  but  in 
her  eagerness  she  was  reckless  of  the  danger. 
'     "How  do  you  know  it  wouldn't  break  mine  too?"  he 
asked,  with  a  scrutiny  that  searched  her  eyes.     "But  there 
are  times  in  life  when  men  have  just  to  fight— and  let  their 
heans  be  broken.     In  becoming  responsible  for  Evie's  hap- 
piness, I've  given  a  pledge  from  which  I  can't  withdraw—" 
"But  that's  where  you  don't  understand  her—' 
"Possibly;  but  it's  where  I  understand  myself." 
"Tea  is  served,  miss,"  the  maid  said,  coming  forward  to 
where  they  talked  in  undertones.     At  the  same  minute  there 
was  a  shuffling  at  the  door  and  Wayne  entered  from  his 
drive.    Ford  would  have  gone  forward  to  help  him,  but 
the  put  out  her  hand  and  stopped  him. 

"He  likes  to  find  his  way  himself,"  she  whispered. 
"They  tell  me  there's  tea  in  here,"  Wayne  said,  cheeril/, 
from  the  doorway. 

"There's  more  than  tea,"  Miriam  replied  in  as  bright  a 
tone  as  she  could  assume.  "There's  Mr.  Strange,  whom 
you  met  last  night." 

"Ah,  that's  good."  Wayne  groped  his  way  toward  the 
voices.  "How  do  you  do!  Glad  to  see  you.  It's  windy 
out-of-doors.    One  feels  the  winter  beginning  to  nip." 

Ford  took  the  extended  hand,  and,  without  seeming  to 
do  so,  adroitly  piloted  the  blind  man  to  a  seat  as  they  moved, 
all  three,  to  the  tea-table. 
For  the  next  ten  minutes  their  talk  turned  on  the  commoa 
193 


THE        WILD 


OLIVE 


I 


...ii!; 


I 


fei  jj.,;* 


topics  of  the  day.  As  during  her  conversation  with  Con- 
quest a  few  weeks  before,  Miriam  found  again  that  the 
routine  of  duties  of  acting  as  hostess  steadied  her  nerves. 
With  Ford  aiding  her  in  the  little  ways  to  which  he  had 
become  accustomed  since  his  engagement  to  Evie,  hostility 
was  absent  from  their  mutual  relation,  even  though  oppo- 
sition remained.  That  at  least  was  a  comfort  to  her;  and 
now  and  then,  as  she  handed  him  the  bread  and  butter  or  a 
plate  of  cakes  to  pass  to  Wayne,  their  eyes  could  meet  in  a 
glance  of  comprehension. 

Wayne  was  still  enjoying  his  tea  when  Ford  turned  to 
him  with  an  abrupt  change  of  tone. 

"I'm  glad  you  came  in,  sir,  while  I  was  still  here,  be- 
cause there's  something  I  particularly  want  to  tell  you." 

He  did  not  look  at  Miriam,  but  he  could  feel  the  way  in 
which  she  sat  upright  and  aghast.  Wayne  turned  his 
•Ightless  eyes,  hidden  by  large  colored  glasses,  toward  the 
•peaker,  and  nodded. 

"Yes  ?"  he  said,  interrogatively. 

"I  would  have  told  you  before,  only  that  Miss  Jarrott 
and  Miss  Colfax  thought  I  had  better  wait  till  every  one 
got  sittled.  In  any  case,  Mr.  Jarrott  made  it  a  condition 
befcie  I  left  Buenos  Aires  that  it  shouldn't  go  outside  the 
family  till  Miss  Colfax  had  had  her  social  winter  in  New 
York." 

Wayne's  face  grew  grave,  but  not  unsympathetic. 

"I  suppose  I  know  what's  coming,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"It's  the  sort  of  thing  that  was  bound  to  come  sooner 
or  later  with  Miss  Colfax."  Ford  smiled,  speaking  with  an 
air  of  assurance.  "What  makes  me  uneasy  is  that  I  should 
be  the  man  to  come  and  tell  the  news.  If  it  was  any  one 
you  knew  better — " 

194 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


"You've  probably  heard  that  I'm  not  Evie's  guardian," 
Wayne  interposed.  "I've  no  control  at  all  over  what  the 
does." 

"I  understand  that;  but  to  me  there's  an  authority  above 
the  legal  one — or  at  least  on  a  level  with  it — and  I  should 
be  unhappy — we  should  both  be  unhappy — if  we  didn't 
have  your  consent." 

Wayne  looked  pleased.  He  was  so  rarely  consulted  in 
the  affairs  of  the  family,  especially  since  his  affliction  had 
forced  him  aside,  thac  this  deference  was  a  clew  to  the  young 
nan's  character.  Nevertheless,  he  allowed  some  seconds 
to  pass  in  sil>-nce,  while  Ford  threw  at  Miriam  a  glance  of 
defiance,  in  which  there  was  also  an  expression  of  audacious 
friendliness.  She  sat  rigid  and  pale,  her  hands  clinching 
the  arms  of  her  chair. 

"It's  a  serious  matter — of  course,"  Wayne  said,  after 
becoming  hesitation;  "but  I've  great  confidence  in  Henry 
Jarrott.  Next  to  Evie  herself,  he's  the  person  most  con- 
cerned— in  a  certain  way.  I'm  told  he  thinks  well  of 
you-" 

"He  ought  to  know,"  Ford  broke  in,  confidently.  "I've 
nothing  to  show  in  the  way  of  passports,  except  myself  and 
my  work.  I've  been  with  him  ever  since  I  went  to  South 
America,  and  he's  been  extremely  kind  to  me.  The  only 
certificate  of  character  I  can  offer  is  one  from  him." 

"That's  sufficient.  We  should  be  sorry  to  let  Evie  go, 
shouldn't  we,  Miriam  ?  She's  a  sweet  child,  and  very  much 
like  her  dear  mother.  But,  as  you  say,  it  was  bound  to 
happen  one  day  or  another;  and  we  can  only  be  glad  that — 
I'm  happy  to  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Strange.  Your  name, 
at  any  rate,  is  a  familiar  one.  It's  that  of  an  old  boyhood  t 
friend  of  mine,  who  showed  me  the  honor  of  placmg  this 
»9S 


-'  'i 


:     •'  I       r 


■■■!  j 


n 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

young  lady  in  my  charge.  We  called  him  Harry.  His  full 
name  was  Herbert  Harrington,  but  he  dropped  the  first. 
You  seem  to  have  taken  it  up— it's  odd,  isn't  it,  Miriam?— 
and  I  take  it  as  a  happy  omen." 

"Thank  you."  Ford  rose,  and  made  the  blind  man 
understand  that  he  was  holding  out  his  hand  "I  shall 
be  more  satisfied  now  for  having  told  you." 

Miriam  accompanied  him  into  the  hall,  on  pretext  of 
ringing  for  the  lift. 

"Oh,  why  did  you  do  that?"  she  protested.  "Dont 
you  see  that  it  only  makes  things  more  com  heated  than 
they  were  already  ?" 

"It's  my  first  move,"  he  laughed,  with  friendly  bravado. 
"Now  you  can  make  yours." 

She  gazed  at  him  in  puzzled  distress  as  the  lift  rose. 

"I'm  coming  again,"  he  said,  with  renewed  confidence. 
"I've  a  lot  more  things  to  say." 

"And  I  have  only  one,"  she  answered,  turning  back  to- 
ward the  drawing-room. 

"He's  a  nice  young  fellow,"  Wayne  said,  as  he  heard  her 
enter.  He  had  risen  and  felt  his  way  into  the  bay-window, 
where  he  stood  looking  outward  as  if  he  could  see.  "I 
suppose  it  must  be  all  right,  since  the  Jarrotts  are  so  en- 
thusiastic. Poor  little  Evie!  I  hope  she'll  be  happy.  It'» 
extraordmary  how  his  voice  reminds  me  of — ' 

She  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  waiting  for  him 
to  continue.  Nothing  he  could  add  would  have  surprised 
her  now.    But  he  said  no  more. 


(i   f 


XVI 


IHINKING  that  Ford  might  come  again  next 
afternoon,  Miriam  went  out.  On  her  return 
she  found  his  card — Mr.  Herbert  Strang: 
The  same  thing  occurred  the  next  day,  and 
X^  the  next,  and  so  on  through  the  weelc.  She 
was  not  afraid  of  seeing  him.  Now  thnt  the  worst  wai 
known  to  her,  she  was  sure  of  her  mastery  of  herself,  and 
of  her  capacity  to  meet  anything.  What  she  feared  mo« 
was  her  sympathy  for  him,  and  the  possibility  that  in  some 
unguarded  moment  of  pity  he  might  wring  concessions  from 
her  which  she  had  no  right  to  make.  She  hoped,  too,  that 
time,  even  a  few  days'  time,  would  help  him  to  work  out 
the  honorable  course  for  himself. 

Her  meetings  with  Evie  were  more  inevitable,  and  re- 
quired greater  self-repression.     She  was  so  used  to  the  part 
of  elder  sister,  with  whom  all  confidences  are  discussed, 
that  she  found  it  difficult  not  to  speak  her  heart  out  frankly. 
"  1  heard  he  had  been  to  see  you  and  Popsey  Wayne,  and 
lold  you,"  Evie  said,  with  her  pretty  nose  just  peeping  above 
the  bedclothes,  at  midday,  on  a  morning  later  in  the  week. 
It  was  the  day  after  Evie's  first  large  dance,  and  she  had 
been  sleeping  late.     Miriam  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
smoothing  stray  golden  tendrils  off  the  flushed,  happy  little 
face. 
"He  did  come,"  Miriam  admitted.    "Mr.  Wayne  nude 
197 


m 


THE        JV  I   L   D        OLIVE 

no  objection..    I  can't  tay  he  w».  gUd.    You  wouldn't 
txpect  UJ  to  be  that,  dear,  would  you  ?" 

"I  expect  you  to  like  him.  It  isn't  committing  you  to 
much  to  say  that.  But  you  seem  «o— so  every  which  wajr 
about  him."  ^ 

"I'm  not  every  which  way  about  him.  I  can  t  say  that 
I'm  any  way  at  all.  Yes,  I  do  like  him— after  a  fashion. 
If  I  make  reserves,  it's  because  I'm  not  sure  that  I  thmk 
him  good  enough  for  my  little  Evie." 

"  He's  a  great  deal  too  good!"  Evie  exclaimed,  rapturously. 
"Oh,  Miriam,  if  you  only  knew  how  fond  I  am  of  him  I  I'd 
die  for  him— I  truly  believe  I  would— almost!  Oh,  i  was 
so  stupid  last  night  without  him!  All  these  boys  seem  such 
pigeons  beside  him.  I'm  sorry  now  we're  not  gomg^  to 
announce  the  engagement  at  once.  I  ceruiiily  sha  n  t 
change  my  mind— and  it  would  be  such  fun  to  be  able  to 
jay  I  was  engaged  belbre  coming  out." 

"Twice  before  coming  out." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  only  count  it  once,  do  you  see  ?  Billy's  such 
a  goose.  You  should  have  seen  him  last  night  when  I 
forgot  two  of  my  dances  with  him— on  purpose.  He's 
really  getting  to  dislike  me;  so  that  I  shall  soon  be  able  to— 
to  show  him."  ^ 

"  I  wouldn't  be  in  a  hurry  about  that,  dear.  There  s  lot* 
of  time.    As  you  said  the  other  day,  it's  no  use  hurting  his 

feelings-" 

Evie  sat  up  suddenly  >  bed,  and  looked  suspicious. 

"So  you're  taking  th.  t  stand.  Now  I  know  you  don't 
like  him.  You've  got  something  against  him,  though  I 
can't  for  the  life  of  me  imagine  what  it  can  be,  when  you 
never  laid  eyes  on  him  till  a  few  days  ago.  Well,  I'm  not 
going  to  change,  do  you  see  ?  You  may  as  well  make  up 
19S 


THE        W  f  L   D        OLIVE 

your  mind  to  that  at  once.    And  it  will  be  Billy  or  no 

Billy"  .    .        L  „. 

Nearer  than  that  Miriam  could  not  approach  the  lubject 

through  fear  of  doing  more  harm  than  good.     At  the  i-nd 

of  a  week  Ford  found  her  at  home,  chiefly  because  .he  felt 

it  time  he  should.     She  secured  again  the  afternoon-call 

.tmosphere;  but  she  noticed  that  he  carried  a  small  packet 

-a  large,  brownish-yellow  envelope,  strapped  with  rul.ber 

bands-which  he  kept  in  his  hand.     She  was  struck  by  the 

Rreater  ease  of  his  entry,  a..d  by  the  renewal  of  that  sense  of 

comradeship  which  had  marked  his  bearing  toward  her  m 

the  old  days  in  the  cabin.    The  small  comedy  of  mtro- 

duaory  commonplace  went  ofF  smoothly. 

"Well  r  he  said  then,  with  a  litUe  challenging  laugh. 

"Well— what?"  ,      ,_         ,         J. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  your  move.    You  haven  t  made 

'  She  shook  her  head.    "  I've  no  mo- .  to  make." 

"Oh  yes,  you  have-a  c'e^t  '•  ig  '"°^<=-  Y°"  ""  ^.^ 
lay  Check.     I  doubt  if  you  can  make  it.  Checkmate.      _ 

"Vm  afraid  that's  a  game  I  don't  know  how  to  play. 

He  stared  at  her  mquiringly-noting  the  disdam  with 
which  her  chin  tilted  and  her  lip  curled,  though  he  could  see 
it  was  a  disdam  suffused  with  sweetness. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  wouldn't-wouldn  t  give  me 

away  ?"  •     i  j     >. 

"I  mean  that  you're  either  broaching  a  topic  1  don  t 
understand  or  speaking  a  language  I've  never  learned 
If  you  don't  mind,  we  won't  discuss  the  subject,  and  we  11 
.pik  our  mother-tongue-the  mother-tongue  of  people  like 

you  and  me."  , 

He  .ured  again.     It  took  him  some  few  seconds  to  under- 

199 


i  \ 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


.ill'*' 


1 

!'^ 

r 


stand  her  phraseology.  In  proportion  as  her  meaning 
broke  upon  him.  his  face  glowed.  When  he  spoke  it  was 
with  enthusiasm  for  her  generosity  in  taking  this  stat>4 
nther  than  in  gratitude  for  anything  he  was  to  gain  by  it. 

"By  Jove,  you're  a  brick!  You  always  were.  I  might 
have  expected  that  this  is  exactly  what  you'd  say." 

"  I  hope  so.  I  didn't  expect  that  you'd  talk  of  my  giving 
you  away,  as  you  call  it — to  any  one." 

"  But  you're  wrong,"  he  said,  with  a  return  to  the  laugh- 
ing bravado  which  concealed  his  inward  repugnance  to 
his  position.  "You're  wrong.  I'll  give  you  that  tip  now. 
I'll  fight  fair.  I  sha'n't  be  grateful.  I'll  profit  by  your 
magnanimity.  Remember  it's  my  part  in  the  world  to  he 
unscrupulous.  It  has  to  be.  I've  told  you  so.  With  me 
the  end  justifies  the  means — always;  and  when  the  end  is 
to  keep  my  word  to  Evie,  it  will  make  no  difference  to  me 
that  you  were  too  high-minded  to  put  the  big  obstacle  in 
my  way." 

"You'll  not  expect  me  to  be  otherwise  than  sorry  tcx 
that — for  your  sake." 

"No,  I  dare  say.  But  I  can't  stop  to  think  of  what  any 
one  feels  for  my  sake  when  I  know  what  I  feel  for  mjr 
own." 

"Which  is  only  an  additional  reason  for  my  being — 
sorry.     You  don't  find  fault  with  me  for  that  ?" 

"I  do.  I  don't  want  you  to  be  sorry.  I  want  to  co«- 
Tince  you.  I  want  you  to  see  things  from  my  point  of  view 
— how  I've  been  placed.  Good  Lord!  it's  hard  enough, 
without  the  sense  that  you're  sitting  in  judgment  on  me." 

"I'm  not  sitting  in  judgment  on  you — except  in  so  far 
as  concerns  Evie  Colfax.     If  it  was  anybody  else — " 

"But  it  couldn't  be  anybody  else.  It's  Evie  or  no  owe. 
200 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

She's  everything  on  earth  to  me.  She's  to  me  what  elec- 
tricity is  to  the  wire— that  which  makes  it  a  thing  alive." 
"To  be  a  thing  alive  isn't  necessarily  the  highest  thing." 
"Ah,  but  that  doesn't  apply  to  me.  It's  ail  very  well  for 
other  men  to  say,  'All  is  lost  to  save  honor.'  They  have 
compensations.  I  haven't.  You  might  as  well  ask  a  man 
to  think  of  the  highest  thing  when  he's  drowning." 

"But  I  should.  There  have  been  men  who  haven't— 
and  they've  saved  their  lives  by  it.  But  you  know  what 
we've  called  them." 

"In  my  case  there'd  be  only  you  to  call  me  that— if  you 
wanted  to." 

"Oh  no;   there'd  be— you." 

"I  can  stand  that.  I've  stood  it  for  eight  years  already. 
If  you  think  I  haven't  had  times  wh  r  it's  been  hell,  you're 
quite  mistaken.  I  wonder  if  you  car  guess  what  it  means 
to  me — in  h.  e" — he  tapped  his  breast — "to  go  round 
among  all  these  good,  kind,  honorable  people,  passing  my- 
self off  as  Herbert  Strange  when  all  the  time  I'm  Norrie 
Ford— and  a  convict?  But  I'm  forced  to.  There's  no 
way  out  of  it." 

"Because  there's  no  way  out  of  it  isn't  a  reason  for  going 
further  in." 

"What  docs  that  matter?  When  you're  in  up  to  the 
eyes,  what  does  it  mr-ter  if  you  go  over  your  head  ?" 

"In  this  case  it  would  matter  to  Evie.  That's  my  point. 
I  have  to  protect  her— to  save  her.  There's  no  one  but  me 
to  do  it — and  you." 

"Don't  count  on  me,"  he  said,  savagely.     "I've  the 
right,  in  this  wild  beast's  life,  to  seize  anything  I  can 
snatch." 
He  renewed  h.s  arguments,  going  over  all  the  ground 

201 


U    !, 


n 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

again.  She  listened  to  him  as  she  had  once  listened  to  his 
plea  in  his  defence— her  pose  pensive,  her  chin  resting  on 
her  hand,  her  eyes  pitiful.  As  far  as  she  was  aware  of  her 
own  feelings  it  was  merely  to  take  note  that  a  kind  of  yearn- 
ing over  him,  an  immense  sorrow  for  him  and  with  him, 
had  extinguished  the  fires  that  a  few  days  ago  were  burn- 
ing for  herse'f  It  was  hard  to  sit  there  heedless  of  his  ex- 
position and  deaf  to  his  persuasion.  Seeing  her  inflexible, 
he  became  halting  in  his  speech,  till  finally  he  stopped,  still 
looking  at  her  with  an  unresenting,  dog-like  gaze  of  en- 
treaty. 

She  made  no  comment  when  he  ceased,  and  for  a  time 

they  sat  in  silence. 

"Do  you  know  what  this  is?"  he  asked,  holding  the 
packet  toward  her. 
She  shook  her  head  wonderingly. 

"  It's  what  I  owe  you."  She  made  a  gesture  of  depreca- 
tion. "It's  the  money  you  lent  me,"  he  went  on.  "It's 
a  tremendous  satisfaction— that  at  least— to  be  able  to  bring 
it  back  to  you."  .     . 

"But  I  don't  want  it,"  she  stammered,  in  some  agitation. 
"Perhaps  not.     But  I  want  you  to  have  it."     He  ex- 
plained to  her  briefly  what  he  had  done  in  the  matter.  ^^ 

"Couldn't  you  give  it  to  something?"  she  begged,  "to 
some  church  or  institution  ?" 

"You  can,  if  you  like.  I  mean  to  give  it  to  you.  You 
tee,  I'm  not  returning  it  with  expressions  of  gratitude,  be- 
cause anything  I  could  say  would  be  so  inadequate  as  to 
be  absurd."  . 

He  left  his  chair  and  came  to  her,  with  the  packet  m  hn 
outstretched  hand.  She  shrank  from  it,  rising,  and  re- 
treating into  the  space  of  the  bay-window. 

Z02 


^^"jkJt'j^A 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

"But  I  don't  want  it,"  she  insisted.  "I  never  thought 
of  your  returning  it.  I  scarcely  thought  of  the  mc.dent  »t 
an.    It  had  almost  passed  from  my  memory. 

"That's  natural  enough;  but  it's  equally  natural  that  rt 
shouldn't  have  passed  from  mine."  He  came  close  to  her 
and  offered  it  again.    "Do  take  it." 

"Put  u  on  the  table.     Please." 

"That  isn't  the  same  thing.  I  want  you  to  take  it.  1 
want  to  put  it  into  your  own  hand,  as  you  put  it  into 

""she  remembered  that  she  had  put  it  into  his  hand  by 
dosing  his  fingers  forcibly  upon  it,  and  hastened  to  prevent 
anylhfng  of  that  kind  now.  She  took  it  unwillingly,  holdmg 
it  in  both  hands  as  if  it  were  a  casket.  _ 

"That's  done,"  he  said,  with  satisfaction.       You  cant 
taagine  what  a  relief  it  is  to  have  it  off  my  mind.        ^^ 
"I'm  so.ry  you  should  have  felt  about  it  like  that. 
"You  would  have  felt  like  th.t  yourself,  i    you  were  a 
„an  owing  money  to  a_  woman-and  especially  a  woman 
who  was  your— enemy." 

"Ohl"   She  cowered,  as  if  he  had  threatened  her 
"I  repeat  the  word,"  he  laughed,  un^-,.^y_^      Any  one 
is  my  enemy  who  comes  between  me  and  Ev.e.     You^n 
forgive  me  if  I  seem  brutal—" 

"Yes  I'll  forgive  you.     I'll  even  accept  the  word.       She 
was  pale  and  nervous,  with  the  kind  of  nervousness    ha 
kept  her  smiling  and  still,  but  sent  the  queer,  lambent 
flashes  into  her  eyes.    "  Let  us  say  it.     I'm  your  enemy,  and 
!:„  ;;  me  the  money  so  as  to  feel  free  to  strike  me  as  hard 

as  vou  can.  „        ,    .      •    •. 

He  kept  to  his  laugh,,  but  there  was  a  forced  ring  m  it. 
"I  don't  call  that  a  fair  way  of  puttmg  it,  but— 

203 


.  *,;i 


wmmi'm. 


1   ! 


!1, -1:   1 


in 


THE        H^  I  L   D        OLIVE 

"I  don't  see  that  the  way  of  putting  it  matters,  so  long 
as  it's  the  fact." 

"It's  the  fact  twisted  in  a  very  ingenious  fashion.  I 
should  say  that — since  I'm  going  to  marry  Evie — I  want — 
naturally  enough — to  feel  that — that" — he  stammered  and 
reddened,  seeking  a  word  that  would  not  convey  an  in- 
sult— "to  feel — that  I  —  met  other  claims — as  well  as  I 
could." 

He  looked  her  in  the  eyes  with  significant  dii  crtness. 
His  steady  gaze,  in  which  she  saw — or  thought  she  saw — 
glints  of  challenge  toned  down  by  gleams  of  regret,  seemed 
to  say,  "Whatever  I  owe  you  other  than  money  is  out  of  my 
power  to  pay."  She  fully  understood  that  he  dii'  not 
repudiate  the  debt;  he  was  only  telling  her  that  sinct  he  had 
given  all  to  Evie,  his  heart  was  bankrupt.  What  angered 
her  and  kept  her  silent,  fearing  she  would  say  something 
she  would  afterward  repent,  was  the  implication  that  she 
was  putting  forth  her  claim  for  fulfilment. 

He  still  confronted  her,  with  an  air  of  flying  humiliation 
as  a  flag  of  defiance,  while  she  stood  holding  the  packet  in 
both  hands,  when  the  door  was  pushed  open,  and  Evie, 
radiant  from  her  walk  in  the  cold  air  and  fine  in  autumn 
furs  and  plumage,  fluttered  in.  Her  blue  eyes  opened  wide 
on  the  two  in  the  bay-window,  but  she  did  not  advance 
from  the  threshold. 

"Dear  me,  dear  me!"  she  twittered,  in  her  dry  little 
fashion,  before  they  had  time  to  realize  the  fact  that  she 
was  there.     "I  hope  I'm  not  interrupting  you." 

"Evie  dear,  come  in."  Miriam  threw  the  packet  on  a 
table,  and  went  forward.  Ford  followed,  trying  to  regain 
the  appearance  of  "just  making  a  call." 

"No,  no,"  Evie  cried,  waving  Miriam  back.     "I  only 

204 


E  1  >      I 

i!:! 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

came-for  nothing.  That  is-  But  I'll  go  away  and  come 
back  again.  Do  you  think  you'll  be  long  ?  But  I  suppose 
if  you  have  secrets — " 

Her  hand  was  on  the  knob  again,  but  Miriam  caught  her. 

"No,  darling,  you  must  stay.  You're  absurd.  Mr. 
Strange  and  I  were  just— talking."  .  ,     .       . 

"Yes  so  I  saw.  That's  why  I  thought  I  might  be  de 
trap  How  do  you  do!"  She  put  out  her  left  hand  care- 
lessly to  Ford,  her  right  hand  still  holding  the  knob,  and 
twisted  her  little  person  impatiently.  Ford  held  her  hand, 
but  she  snatched  it  away.  "There's  not  the  least  reason 
why  I  should  stay,  do  you  see  ?"  she  hurried  on.  1  only 
came  with  a  message  from  Aunt  Queenie." 

"I'm  sure  it's  confidential,"  Ford  laughed,  "so  1 11  make 

myself  scarce."  . 

"You  can  do  just  as  you  like,"  Evie  returned,  indifferently. 
"Cousin  Colfax  Yorke,"  she  added,  looking  at  Miriam, 
"has  telephoned  that  he  can't  come  to  dme;  and,  as  its 
too  late  to  get  anybody  else.  Aunt  Queenie  thought  you 
might  come  and  make  a  fourth.  It's  only  ourselves  and- 
him,"  she  nodded  toward  Strange. 

"Certainly,  I'll  come,  dear-with  pleasure. 
"And  I'll  go,"  Ford  said;  "but  I  won't  add  with  pleasure, 
because  that  would  be  rude.  . 

When  he  had  gone  Evie  sniffed  about  the  room,  looking 
at  the  pictures  and  curios  as  if  she  had  never  seen  them 
before  It  was  evident  that  she  had  spied  the  packet,  and 
was  making  ner  way,  by  a  seemingly  accidental  route, 
toward  it.  ^  riam  drifted  back  to  her  place  in  the  bay- 
window,  where,  while  apparently  watching  the  traffic  m 
the  street  below,  she  kept  an  eye  on  Evie's  manoeuvres 
"What  on  earth  can  you  two  have  to  talk  about  f  tvie 
14  205 


\  I-  • 


w 


■t     ^ 


THE        WILD        O   L   I  r  B 

demanded,  while  she  seemed  intent  on  examining  a  cabinet 
of  old  porcelain. 

"If  you're  very  good,  dear,"  Miriam  replied,  trying  to 
take  an  amused,  offhand  tone,  "I'll  tell  you.  It  was  busi- 
ness." 

"Business?    Why,  I  thought  you  hardly  knew  him." 

"You  don't  have  to  know  people  very  well  to  trans- 
act business  with  them.  He  came  on  a  question  of — 
money." 

"No,  but  you  don't  start  up  doing  business  with  a  person 
that's  just  dropped  down  from  the  clouds — like  that."  She 
snapped  her  angers  to  indicate  precipitous  haste. 

"Sometimes  you  do." 

"Well,  you  don't.  I  know  that  for  a  fact."  She  wat 
inspecting  a  vase  on  a  pedestal  in  a  comer  now.  It  was 
nearer  to  the  packet.  She  wheeled  round  suddenly,  so 
that  it  should  take  her  by  surprise.    "  What'i  that  f" 

"You  see.     It's  an  envelope  with  papers  in  it." 

"What  sort  of  papers  ?" 

"I  haven't  looked  at  them  yet.  They  have  to  do  with 
money,  or  investments,  or  something.  I'm  never  very 
clear  about  those  things." 

"I  thought  you  did  all  that  th.ough  Cousin  Endsleigh 
Jarrott  and  Mr.  Conquest  ?" 

"This  was  a  little  thing  I  couldn't  trouble  them  with." 

"And  you  went  straight  off  to  him,  when  you'd  only 
known  him — let  me  see! — bow  many  days? — one,  two, 
three,  four — " 

"I've  gone  to  people  I  didn't  know  at  all — sometimes. 
You  have  to.  If  you  only  knew  more  about  investing 
money — " 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  investing  money;  but  1 
206 


vi  ! 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


know  this  is  very  queer.    And  you  didn't  liJce  him— or 
you  said  you  didn't." 

"I  said  I  did,  dear — after  a  fashion — and  so  I  do." 

"In  that  case  I  should  think  a  good  deal  would  depend 
upon  the  fashion.  Look  here.  It's  addressed — Mia 
Strange.  That's  his  writing.  That's  how  he  scribbles  hii 
name.  And  there's  something  written  in  tiny,  tiny  letters 
in  the  corner.  What  is  it  ?"  Without  touching  the  enve- 
lope she  bent  down  to  see.  "It's  The  ffild  Olive.  Now, 
what  in  this  world  can  that  mean?  That's  not  business, 
anyhow.    That  means  something." 

"No,  that's  not  business,  but  I  haven't  an  idea  what  it 
means."  Miriam  was  glad  to  be  able  to  disclaim  something. 
"It  was  probably  on  the  envelope  by  accident.  Some  clerk 
wrote  it,  and  Mr.  Strange  didn't  notice  it." 

Evie  let  the  explanation  pass,  while  continuing  to  itart 
at  the  object  of  her  suspicions. 

"That's  not  papers,"  she  said,  at  last,  pointing  as  she 
spoke  to  something  protruding  between  the  rubber  bands. 
"There's  something  in  there.  It  looks  like  a"— she  hesi- 
tated, to  find  the  right  article — "it  looks  like  a  card-case." 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  Miriam  agreed.  "But  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  why  he  should  bring  me  a  card-case." 

"Why  don't  you  look  ?" 

"I  wasn't  in  a  hurry;  but  you  can  look  yourself  if  you 
want  to." 

Evie  took  offence.  "I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to.  That's 
the  last  thing." 

"I  wish  you  would.    Then  you'd  see." 

"I  only  do  it  under  protest,"  she  declared — "because 
you  force  me  to."     She  took  up  the  envelope,  and  began 
to   unloose   the   rubber   bands.    "The    Wild  Olive,"   tha 
a07 


THE 


WILD        O   LIVE 


i  |i : 


quoted,  half  to  herself.  "Ridiculous!  I  should  th.nk  clerk, 
might  have  something  better  to  do  than  write  such  thmg. 
as  that-on  envclopes-on  people's  business.  But  her  in- 
dignation turned  to  surprise  when  a  small  «=««  '^mg.  not 
unlike  a  card-case,  certainly,  tumbled  out.  What  m  the 
name  of  goodness —  ?  ,      •       r 

Only  strong  self-control  kept  Miriam  from  dartmg  for- 
ward to  snatch  it  from  the  floor.  She  remembered  .t  at 
once  It  was  a  worn  red  leather  pocket-book,  which  she 
had  last  seen  when  it  was  fresh  and  new-s.ttmg  m  the 
sunset,  on  the  heights  above  Champlain,  and  lookmg  at 
the  jewelled  sea.  A  card  fell  from  it,  on  which  there  was 
something  written.  Evie  dropped  on  one  knee  to  pick  it 
up.  Miriam  was  sorry  to  risk  anything,  but  she  felt  con- 
strained to  say,  as  quietly  as  possible:  ..  l. 
"You'd    better    not    read    that,   dear.     It    might    be 

"""Evie' slipped  the  card  back  into  the  pocket-book  which 
she  threw  on  the  table,  where  Miriam  let  it  1...  I  won  t 
look  at  anything  else,"  Evie  said,  with  diy.it;-,  turnmg 

"''"I  want  you  to,"  Miriam  said,  authoritatively.    "I  beg 

^°Thas  commanded,  Evie  drew  forth  a  flat  document,  on 
which  she  read,  in  ornamental  letters,  the  inscription,  N^ 
York,  Toronto,  and  Great  Lakes  Railroad  Company,  bhe 
unfolded  it  slowly,  looking  puzzled.  ^ 

"It's  nothing  but  a  lot  of  little  square  things,    she  said, 
with  some  disdain. 

"The  little  square  things  are  called  coupons,  tf  you  know 

what  they  are." 

"I  know  they're  things  people  cut-when  they  have  a 


THE        WILD        O   L   I  F  B 

lot  of  money.    I  don't  know  why  they  cut  them;   aa4 
tea  lew  do  1  know  why  he  ihould  be  bringing  thm  m 


JW" 


he* 


Miriam  had  a  ludden  inspiration  that  made  he 
beam  with  relief. 

•'I'll  tell  you  why  he  brought  them  to  me,  dear— though  1 
do  it  under  protest,  as  you  say  yourself.  Your  curiosiqr 
fo'ces  my  hand,  and  makes  me  show  it  ahead  of  time.  He 
brought  them  to  me  because  it's  a  weddmg-present  for 
you.  When  you  get  married— or  begin  to  get  married— yon 
can  have  all  that  money  for  your  trousseau." 

"Aunt  Helen  is  going  to  give  me  my  trousseau,     hht 

laid  so."  ,     , 

"Then  you  can  have  it  for  anything  you  like-for  house- 
furnishings  or  a  pearl  neckbce.  You  know  you  wanted  a 
peari  necklace-and  there's  plenty  for  a  nice  one.  Each  ot 
Aose  papers  is  worth  a  thousand  dollars,  or  nearly.  And 
there  are— how  many ?"  .,    r  .        - 

"Three.    You  seem  very  keen  on  getting  nd  of  them. 
"So  I  am— to  you,  darling." 

Evie  prepared  to  depart,  looking  unconvinced.  ^ 

"  It's  awfully  nice  of  you-of  course.  But  still-if  that . 
what  you  had  meant  at  first -from  the  beginning - 
you  would  have-     Well,  I'll  tell  Aunt  Queen.e  youTl 

come."  J  •     ,k. 

Left  alone,  Miriam  m-de  haste  to  read  the  card  m  tn« 

pocket-book. 

As  deep  calls  to  deep,  so  Spirit  speaks  to  Spirit.     It  is  thi 
a„ly  true  communion  between  mutually  comprehending  souls. 
But  it  is  unerring— pardoning  all,  because  understanding  afl, 
and  making  the  crooked  straight. 
loq 


I  ^ 

■I  i'f 


i^ 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

She  read  it  more  than  once.  She  wat  not  lure  that  it 
waf  meant  for  het.  She  wai  not  sure  that  it  wat  in  Ford'i 
own  handwriting.  But  in  their  situation  it  had  a  meaning; 
she  took  it  as  a  message  to  herself;  and  as  she  read,  and 
read  again,  she  felt  on  her  face  the  trickling  of  one  or  tw» 
slow,  hard  tean. 


p-J 


XVII 


jIHE  result  of  the  dinner  that  evening  was  that 
Evie  grew  more  fretful.  After  the  departure 
of  her  guests,  she  evolved  a  brief  formula 
which  she  used  frequently  during  the  neR 
few  weeks:  "There's  something! "  With  her 
quick  eyes  and  quicker  intuitions,  it  was  impossible  for  her 
not  to  see  that  Ford  and  Miriam  possessed  common  mem- 
ories of  the  kind  that  distinguish  old  acquaintances  from 
new  ones.  When  it  did  not  transpire  in  chance  words  she 
caught  it  in  their  glances  or  divined  it  in  the  mental  atmos- 
phere. As  autumn  passed  into  early  winter  she  became 
nervous,  peevish,  and  exacting;  she  lost  much  from  het 
pretty  ways  and  something  from  her  looks.  In  the  family 
the  change  was  ascribed  to  the  fatigue  incid.ital  to  the 
sudden  round  of  lunches,  dinners,  dances,  suppers,  theatre- 
parties,  opera-goings,  and  "teas"  with  which  American 
boys  and  girls  of  a  certain  age  a.e  surfeited  pitilessly  with 
pleasure,  as  Strasburg  geese  are  stuffed  for  pate  de  foie  gras. 
Ford,  however,  suspected  the  true  reason,  and  Miriam  knew 
it.  They  met  as  seldom  as  might  be;  and  yet,  with  the 
many  things  requiring  explanation  between  them,  frank 
conversation  became  imperative. 

"You  see  how  it  is  already,"  Miriam  said  to  him.    "It'« 
making  her  unhappy  from  the  start     You  can't  conceal 
the  truth  from  her  very  long." 
211 


If 


k 


TUB       WILD        O   L    I  rjt 

"Sh«  Un't  fretting  about  the  truth;  ihe'i  fretting  »bo« 
what  the  imagines." 

"She'i  fretting  became  ahe  doesn't  undersund,  and 
ahcll  go  on  fretiing  till  she  does.  I'm  not  sorry.  It  mu« 
show  you — " 

"It  shows  me  the  necessity  of  our  being  married  as  soo« 
as  possible,  so  that  I  may  uke  care  of  her,  and  put  a  stop 

"I  agree  with  you  that  you'd  put  a  stop  to  it.  You  a 
put  a  stop  to  everything.  She  wouldn't  live  a  yeai — or 
you  wouldn't.  Either  she'd  die-or  she'd  abhor  you.  And 
it  she  didn't  die,  you'd  want  to." 

"I  wish  to  the  Lord  I  had  died— eight  years  ago.  The 
great  mistake  I  made  was  when  the  lumber-jacks  loosed 
my  hand-cuffs  and  started  me  through  the  woods.  They 
called  It  giving  me  a  chance,  and  for  a  few  minutes  I  thought 
k  was  one.  A  chancel  Good  Co"  I  remcniber  feeling, 
>s  I  ran,  that  I  was  deserting  something.  I  didn't  know 
what  it  was  just  then,  but  I've  understood  it  since.  It 
would  have  been  a  pluckier  thing  to  have  been  in  my  coffia 
as  Norrie  Ford— or  even  doing  timt— than  to  be  here  at 
Herbert  Strange." 

She  said  nothin„  for  the  moment,  but  as  they  walked 
along  side  by  side  he  shot  a  glance  at  h  r,  and  saw  her 
coloring.  They  had  met  in  the  park.  He  was  going 
toward  the  house  in  Seventy-second  Street  when  she  wa« 
coming  away  from  it.  Seizing  the  opportunity  of  a  few 
words  in  private,  he  had  turned  to  stroll  back  with  her.^ 

"I  didn't  expect  you  to  be  here  as  Herbert  Strange,"  she 
said,  as  though  in  self-excuse.  "I  had  to  give  you  a  name 
that  was  like  my  own,  when  I  was  writing  letters  about 
your  ticket,  and  sending  checks.     I  had  to  do  everything  to 

212 


THE       WILD       OLIVE 

■void  luspicion  at  a  time  when  Greenport  was  watched. 
1  thought  you  might  be  able  to  uke  your  own  name  or  lome- 
thing  lilte  it — " 

He  explained  to  her  how  that  had  never  been  possible. 
"Evie  fidgets  about  it,"  he  continued.  "She  puts  to- 
gether the  two  facts  that  you  and  I  seem  to  have  known 
each  other,  and  thnt  my  name  is  identical  with  your  father's. 
She  doesn't  know  what  to  make  of  it;  she  only  thinks 
'there's  something.'  She  hasn't  said  more  than  that  in 
words,  but  I  see  her  little  mind  at  work." 

"Evie  isn't  the  only  one,"  she  informed  him.  "There's 
Mr.  Wayne.  He  has  to  be  reckoned  with.  He  recognized 
your  voice  from  the  first  minute  of  hearing  it,  though  he 
hasn't  said  yet  that  he  knows  whose  it  is.  He  may  do  so 
at  any  time.  He's  very  surprising  at  that  sort  of  thing. 
I  can  see  him  listening  when  you're  there,  not  only  to  your 
words,  but  to  your  very  movements,  trying  to  recapture — 

"The  upshot  of  everything,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "is  that 
I  must  marry  her,  take  he  lick  to  the  Argentine,  where  I 
found  her,  and  where  we  shall  both  be  out  of  harm'i 
way." 

"You  wouldn't  be  out  of  harm's  way.  You  can't  turn 
your  back  on  it  like  that.  ■  You  alone  might  be  able  to  slip 
through,  but  not  if  you  have  Evie." 

"That  will  be  my  affair;  I'll  see  to  it.  I  take  the  full 
responsibility  on  myself." 

"I  couldn't  let  you.  Remember  that.  You  can't  marry 
her.     Let  me  say  it  plainly — " 

"Oh,  you've  said  it  plainly  enough." 
"If  I've  said  it  too  plainly,  it's  because  you  force  me. 
You're  so  wilful." 

"You  mean,  I'm  so  determined.    What  it  ai..>junti  to  i« 

21? 


--^ft    - 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


'^ 


the  clash  of  your  will  against  mine;  and  you  refuse  to  see 
that  I  can't  give  way." 

"I  see  that  you  must  give  way.  it's  in  the  nature  of 
things.  It's  inevitable.  If  I  didn't  know  that,  do  you 
think  I  should  interfere  ?  Do  you  think  I  should  dare  to 
ran  the  risk  of  wrecking  your  happiness  if  I  could  do  any- 
thing else  f  If  you  knew  how  I  hate  doing  anything  at 
all—" 

"But  you  needn't.     You  can  just  let  things  be." 

"I  can't  let  things  be — with  all  I  know;  and  yet  it's 
impossible  for  me  to  appeal  to  any  one,  except  yourself. 
You  put  me  in  a  position  in  which  I  must  either  betray 
you  or  betray  those  who  trust  me.  Because  I  can't  do 
either — " 

"  I  profit  by  your  noble-mindedness.  I  told  you  I  would. 
I'm  sorry  to  have  to  do  it — I'll  even  admit  that  I'm  ashamed 
of  it — and  yet  there's  no  other  course  for  me.  I'm  not 
taking  you  at  an  unfair  advantage,  because  I've  concealed 
nothing  from  you  from  the  first.  You  talk  about  the  diffi- 
culty of  your  position,  but  you  don't  begin  to  imagine  mine. 
As  if  everything  else  wasn't  gall  to  me,  I've  got  your  dis- 
approval to  add  wormwood." 

"It  isn't  my  disapproval;  it's  simply — the  situation. 
My  opinion  counts  for  nothing — " 

"It  counts  for  everything  with  me — and  yei  T  have  to 
ignore  it.  But,  after  all,"  he  flung  out,  bitterly,  "it's  the 
old  story.  I  claim  the  right  to  squeeze  out  of  life  such  drops 
of  happiness — if  you  can  call  it  happiness — as  men  have  left 
to  me,  and  you  deny  it.  There  it  is  in  a  nutshell.  Because 
other  people  have  inflicted  a  great  wrong  on  me,  you  in- 
sist that  I  shall  inflict  a  greater  ore  on  myself.  And  this 
time  it  wouldn't  be  only  on  mys<  :f;  it  would  be  on  poor 
214 


THE        JV  I  L   D        OLIVE 


litde  £"'»■,  There's  where  it  cuts.  No,  no;  I  shall  go  on. 
r-  a  the  iic;ht  to  do  it.  You  must  stop  me  if  you  can.  If 
yc  .1  d  >n't,  or  w.  ..'t — ^why,  then — " 

'  I  can  .stop  •  ou  .  .  .  if  you  drive  me  to  extremes  .  .  .  but 
it  wouldn't  be  by  doing  .  .  .  any  of  the  things  you  expect." 

It  was  because  of  the  catch  in  her  voice  that  he  stopped 
in  his  walk,  and  confronted  her.  In  spite  of  the  little  tremor 
he  could  see  in  her  no  sign  of  yielding,  and  behind  her  veil 
he  caught  a  gleam  like  that  of  anger.  It  was  at  that  minute, 
perhaps,  that  he  became  distinctly  conscious  for  the  first 
time  of  a  doubt  as  to  the  superiority  of  "his  type  of  girl." 
Notwithstanding  the  awakening  of  certain  faint  perceptions, 
he  had  hitherto  denied  within  himself  that  there  was  any- 
thing higher  or  more  lovely.  But  in  this  girl's  unflinching 
loyalty,  and  in  her  tenacious  clinging  to  what  she  considered 
right,  he  was  getting  a  new  glimpse  of  womanhood,  which, 
however,  in  no  way  weakened  his  determination  to  resist 
her. 

"As  far  as  I  see,"  h?  said,  after  long  hesitation,  "you  and 
I  have  two  irreconcilable  duties.  My  duty  is  to  marry 
Evie;  yours  is  to  prevent  me.  In  that  case  there's  nothing 
for  either  of  us  but  to  forge  ahead,  and  see  who  wins.  If 
you  win,  I  shall  bear  no  malice;  and  I  hope  you'll  be  equally 
generous  if  I  do." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  win  independently  of  you.  If  I 
did,  nothing  could  be  easier." 

"Then  why  not  do  it?" 

He  tossed  up  his  hand  with  one  of  his  fatalistic  Latin 
gestures,  drawing  the  attention  of  the  passers-by  to  the 
man  and  woman  talking  so  earnestly.  For  this  reason, 
and  because  she  was  losing  her  self-command,  she  hastened 
to  take  leave  of  him. 

215 


iM 


:!  "  •!"■ 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

Arrived  at  home,  it  gave  her  no  comfort  to  find  Charles 
Conquest— the  most  spick  and  span  of  middle-ag<  d  New- 
Yorkers — waiting  in  the  drawing-room. 

"I  thought  you  might  come  in,"  he  explained,  "so  I 
stayed.  I  have  to  get  your  signature  to  the  papers  about 
that  property  in  Montreal.  I've  fixed  the  thing  up  and 
we'll  sell." 

"You  said  you'd  send  the  papers — " 
"That  sounds  as  if  you  weren't  glad  to  see  me,"  he 
laughed,  "but  I'll  ignore  the  discourtesy.     Here,"  he  added, 
unfolding  the  documents,  "you  put  your  name  there — and 
there — near  the  L.  S." 

She  carried  the  papers  to  her  desk,  and  sat  down  to 
write.  Conquest  took  the  liberty  of  old  friendship  to  stroll 
about  the  room,  with  his  hands  behind  him,  humming  a 
little  tune. 

"Well,"  he  said  suddenly,  "has  he  come  back?" 
He  had  not  approached  the  subject,  beyond  alluding  to 
it  covertly,  since  the  day  she  had  confided  to  him  the  con- 
fused story  of  her  hopes.     She  blotted  her  signature  care- 
fully, thinking  out  her  reply. 
"I've  given  up  expecting  him,"  she  said  at  last. 
"Ho!  ho!     So  that's  out  of  the  way." 
She  pretended  to  be  scanning  the  documents  before  her 
(O  as  to  be  able  to  sit  with  her  back  to  him. 

" It  isn't,  for  the  reason  that  there's— no  way"  she  said, 
after  some  hesitation. 

"Oh  yes,  there  is,"  he  laughed,  "where  there's  a  wilL" 
"But  I've  no  will." 
"I  have;  I've  enough  for  two. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  have  got,"  she  said,  half  turning 
and  speaking  to  him  over  the  back  of  her  chair.     He  drew 
216 


THE        IF  I  L   D        O   L   I   V  B 


■ear  her.     "You've  got  a  great  deal  of  common  sense,  and 
I  want  to  ask  your  advice." 

"I  can  give  that,  as  radium  emits  Hght — without  ever 
diminishing  the  original  store." 

"Then  tell  me.  Has  one  ever  the  right  to  interfere 
where  a  man  and  a  woman — " 

"No,  never.  You  needn't  give  me  any  more  details, 
because  it's  one  of  the  questions  sn  oracle  finds  easiest  t» 
answer.     No  one  ever  thanks  you — " 

"1  shouldn't  be  doing  it  for  thanks." 

"And  you  get  your  own  fingers  burnt." 

"That  wouldn't  matter.  I'd  let  my  fingers  bum  to  the 
bone  if  it  would  do  any  good." 

"It  wouldn't.  You  may  take  my  word  for  it.  I  know 
who  you're  talking  about.     It's  Evie  Colfax." 

She  started,  looking  guilty.  "Why  should  you  suppose 
that?" 

"I've  got  eyes.  I've  watched  her,  and  I  know  she's  a 
little  minx.  Oh,  you  needn't  proti  .t.  She's  a  taking  little 
minx,  and  this  time  she's  in  the  right." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"What  has  Billy  Merrow  got  to  offer  her,  even  if  he  is  my 
nephew  ?  Come  now!  He  won't  be  in  a  position  to  marry 
for  the  next  two  or  three  years.  Whereas  that  fellow 
Strange — " 

"Have  you  heard  anything  about  him?"  she  asked, 
breathlessly. 

"It  isn't  what  I've  heard,  it's  what  I  see.  He's  a  Teijr 
good  chap,  and  a  first-rate  man  of  business." 

"  Do  you  know  him  well — personally  ?" 

"I  meet  him  around — at  the  club  and  other  places — and 
■tturally  I  have  something  to  do  with  him  at  the  office.    I 
217 


i 


i 


THE        IV  I  L   D        OLIVE 

like  him.  If  Evie  ran  snap  him  up  she'll  be  doing  weM 
for  herself.  I'm  sorry  for  Billy,  of  course;  but  heMI  have 
time  to  break  his  heart  more  than  oiice  before  he'll  have 
money  enough  to  do  anything  else  with  it.     If  I'd  married 

at  his  age — " 

This,  however,  was  venturing  on  delicate  ground,  so  that 
he  broke  off,  wheeling  round  toward  the  centre  of  the 
drawing-room.  She  folded  the  documents  and  brought 
them  to  him. 

"You  know  why  I  didn't  send  them?"  he  said,  as  he 
took  them.  "  I  thought  if  I  came  myself,  you  might  have 
something  to  tell  me." 

"I  haven't;   not  anything  special,  that  is." 

"You've  told  me  something  special  already— that  you're 
not  looking  for  him  back." 

"I'd  rather  not  talk  about  it  now,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Then  we'll  talk  about  what  goes  with  it— the  other  side 
of  the  subject." 

"There  is  no  other  side  of  the  subject." 

"Oh,  come  now,  Miriam!  You  haven't  heard  all  I've 
got  to  tell  you.  You've  never  let  me  really  present  my 
case,  as  we  lawyers  say.    If  you  could  see  things  as  I  d»— " 

"But  I  can't,  and  you  mustn't  ask  me  to-day.  I'm 
tired — " 

"It  would  re.-t  you." 

"No,  no;  not  to-day.  Don't  you  see  I'm  not— I'm  not 
myself  ?    I've  iiad  ■\  very  trying  morr.ir.g." 

"What's  the  matter?  Tell  me.  I  can  keep  a  con- 
fidence, even  if  I  can't  do  sjme  other  things.  Come  now! 
I  don't  like  to  think  you'.e  worried  when  perhaps  I  could 
help  you.  That's  what  I  should  b«  good  for,  don't  you 
see  ?  I  could  assist  you  to  beat  a  lot  of  things — " 
2i8 


THE        WILD 


OLIVE 


His  tone,  which  was  so  often  charged  with  a  slightljr 
mocking  banter,  became  tender,  and  he  attempted  to  take 
her  hand.  For  a  minute  it  seemed  as  if  it  might  be  a  re- 
lief to  trust  him,  to  tell  him  the  whole  story  and  follow  his 
counsel ;  but  a  second's  thought  showed  her  that  she  could 
not  shift  the  responsibility  from  herself,  and  that  in  the 
end  she  should  have  to  act  alone. 

"Not  to-day,"  she  pleaded.     "I'm  not  equal  to  it." 

"Then  I'll  come  another  day." 

"Yes,  yes;  if  you  like,  only — " 

"Some  day  soon  f" 

"When  you  like,  only  leave  me  now.  Please  go  awajr. 
You  won't  think  I'm  rude,  will  you  ?  But  I'm  not — not 
as  I  generally  am — " 

"Good-bye."  He  put  out  his  hand  frankly,  and  smiled 
so  humbly,  and  yet  withal  so  confidently,  that  she  fe'»  as  if 
in  spite  of  herself  she  might  yield  to  his  persistence  through 
sheer  weariness. 


To  her  surprise,  the  next  few  weeks  passed  without  in- 
cident, bringing  no  development  in  the  situation.  She  saw 
little  of  Evie  and  almost  nothing  of  Ford.  One  or  two  en- 
counters with  Charles  Conquest  had  no  result  beyond  the 
reiteration  on  his  part  of  a  set  phrase,  "You're  coming  to 
it,  Miriam,"  which,  while  exasperating  her  nerves,  had  a 
kind  of  hypnotic  effect  upon  her  will.  She  felt  as  if  she 
might  be  "coming  to  it."  Without  calculating  the  prob- 
abilities, she  saw  clearly  enough  that  if  she  married  Con- 
quest the  very  act  would  furnish  proof  to  Ford  that  her 
intervention  in  his  affairs  had  been  without  self-interest.  It 
would  even  offer  some  proof  to  herself,  the  sort  of  proof  that 
Mrengthenr  the  resolution  and  supports  what  is  tottering  in 
219 


M    ' 


THE        WILD        O   L   I   r  M 

the  pride.  Notwithstanding  the  Talor  with  which  she  strug- 
gled, her  victory  over  herself  was  not  so  complete  that  she 
could  contemplate  the  destruction  of  Ford's  happiness  with 
absolute  confidence  in  the  pjrity  of  her  motives  in  bringing 
it  to  ruin.  It  was  difficult  to  take  the  highest  road  when 
what  was  left  of  her  own  fiercest  instincts  accompanied  her 
on  it.  That  she  had  fierce  instincts  she  was  quite  aware. 
It  was  not  for  nothing  that  she  had  been  born  almost  be- 
yond the  confines  of  the  civilized  earth,  of  parents  for 
whom  law  and  order  and  other  men's  rights  were  as  the 
dead  letter.  True,  she  was  trying  to  train  the  inheritance 
received  from  them  to  its  finer  purposes,  as  the  vine  drawl 
strange  essences  from  a  flinty  soil  and  sublimates  them  into 
the  grape— but  it  was  still  their  inheritance.  While  she 
was  proud  of  it,  she  was  afraid  of  it;  and  the  fact  that  it 
leaped  with  her  to  separate  Norrie  Ford  from  Evie  Colfax 
was  a  reason  for  distrusring  the  very  impulse  she  knew  to 
be  right.  Marriage  with  Conquest  presented  itself,  there- 
fore, as  a  refuge— from  Ford's  suspicion  and  her  own. 

For  the  time  being,  however,  the  necessity  for  doing  any- 
thing was  not  pressing.  Evie  was  caught  into  the  social 
machine  that  had  been  set  going  on  her  account,  and  wa» 
not  so  much  whiriing  in  it  as  being  whirled.  Her  energies 
were  so  taxed  by  the  task  of  going  round  that  she  had  only 
snatches  of  time  and  attention  to  give  to  her  own  future. 
In  one  of  these  she  wrote  to  her  uncle  Jarrott,  asking  his 
consent  to  the  immediate  proclamation  of  her  engagement, 
with  his  approval  of  her  marriage  at  the  end  of  the  winter, 
though  the  reasons  she  gave  him  were  not  the  same  as  those 
she  advanced  to  Miriam.  To  him  she  dwelt  on  the  ma- 
turity of  her  age  — twenty  by  this  time  — the  unchanging 
nature  of  her  sentiments,  and  her  desire  to  be  settled  down. 
220 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

To  Miriam  she  was  content  to  say,  "There's  somethingi 
and  I  sha'n't  get  to  the  bottom  of  it  till  we're  married." 

Of  the  opening  thus  unexpectedly  otFered  her  Miriam 
made  full  use,  pointing  out  the  folly  or  verifying  suspicions 
after  marriage  rather  than  before. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  do  it,  do  you  see  ?"  was  Evie's  only 
reply.     "I  know  it  will  be  all  right  in  the  end." 

Still  a  few  weeks  were  to  pass,  and  it  was  early  in  the 
new  year  before  Uncle  Jarrott's  cablegram  arrived  with 
the  three  words,  "//  you  like."  Miriam  received  the  in- 
formation at  the  opera,  where  she  had  been  suddenly  called 
on  to  take  the  place  of  Miss  Jarrott,  laid  low  with  "one  of 
her  headaches."  It  was  Ford  who  told  her,  during  an 
entr'acte,  when  for  a  few  minutes  Evie  had  left  the  box 
with  the  young  man  who  made  the  fourth  in  the  party. 
Finding  themselves  alone,  Ford  and  Miriam  withdrew  as  far 
as  possible  from  public  observation,  speaking  in  rapid 
undertones. 

"But  you'll  not  let  her  do  it?"  Miriam  ur^ed. 

"I  shall,  if  you  will.  You  can  stop  it — or  posptone  it. 
If  you  don't,  I  have  every  right  to  forge  ahead.  It's  no  use 
going  over  the  old  arguments  again — " 

"You  put  me  in  an  odious  position.  You  want  me  either 
to  betray  you  or  betray  the  people  who've  been  kind  to  me. 
It  would  be  betrayal  if  I  were  to  let  you  go  on." 

"Then  stop  me;   it's  in  your  power." 

"Very  well;   I  will." 

He  gave  her  a  quick  look,  astonished  rather  than  startled, 
but  there  was  no  time  for  further  speech  before  Evie  and 
her  companion  retu.ned. 

It  was  Miriam's  intention  to  put  her  plan  into  immediate 
execution,  but  she  let  most  of  the  next  day  go  by  without 
IS  221 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


\l 


doing  anything.  Understanding  his  driving  her  to  extremti 
to  be  due  less  to  deliberate  deh-nce  than  to  a  desperate 
braving  of  the  worst,  she  was  giving  him  a  chance  for 
repentance.  Just  at  the  closing  in  of  the  winter  twilight, 
at  the  hour  when  he  generally  appeared,  the  door  wai 
flung  open  and  Billy  Merrow  rushed  in  excitedly. 

"What's  all  this  about  Evie?"  he  shouted,  almost  before 
crossing  the  threshold.  "I've  been  there,  and  no  one  is 
at  home.  What's  it  about?  Who  has  invented  the  con- 
founded lie  ?" 

She  could  only  guess  at  his  meaning,  but  she  forced  hira 
to  shake  hands  and  calm  himself.  Turning  on  the  electric 
light,  she  saw  a  young  man  with  decidedly  tousled  reddish 
hair,  and  features  as  haggard  as  a  perfectly  healthy,  honctt, 
freckled  face  could  be. 

"Sit  down,  Billy,  and  tell  me  about  it." 

"I  can't;    I'm  crazy." 

"So  I  see;   but  tell  me  what  you're  crazy  about." 

"Haven't  you  heard  it?  Of  course  you  have.  Thejr 
wouldn't  be  writing  it  to  Uncle  Charlie  if  you  didn't  know 
all  about  it.     But  I'm  hanged  if  I'll  let  it  go  on." 

Little  by  little  she  dragged  the  story  from  him.  Miss 
Queenie  Jarrott  had  written  to  Charles  Conquest  as  one  of 
the  oldest  friends  of  the  family  to  inform  him,  "somewhat 
confidentially  as  yet,"  of  her  niece's  engagement  to  Mr. 
Herbert  Strange,  of  Buenos  Aires  and  New  York.  Uncle 
Charlie,  knowing  what  this  would  mean  to  him,  had  come 
to  break  the  news  and  tell  him  to  "buck  up  and  take  it 
standing." 

"I'll  bet  you  I  sha'n't  take  it  lying  down,"  he  assured 
Miriam.     "Evie  is  engaged  to  me." 

"Yes,  Billy,  but  you  see  Miss  Jarrott  didn't  know  it. 

222 


THE        IF  I   L   D        OLIVE 

That's  where  the  mistake  has  been.  You  know  I've  alwayi 
been  o-- josed  to  the  secrecy  of  the  affair,  and  I  advised  you 
and  Evie  to  wait  till  you  could  both  speak  out." 

"It  isn't  so  very  secret.  You  know  it  and  so  does  Uncle 
C  hailic." 

"But  Evie's  own  family  have  been  kept  in  the  dark, 
except  that  she  told  her  aunt  in  South  America.  But  that's 
where  the  mistake  comes  in,  don't  you  see  ?  Miss  Jarrott, 
not  having  an  idea  about  you,  you  see — " 

"Spreads  it  round  that  Evie  is  engaged  to  some  one  else, 
when  she  isn't.  I'll  show  her  who's  engaged,  when  I  can 
find  her  in.     I'm  going  to  sit  on  her  door-step  till — " 

"I  wouldn't  do  anything  rash,  Billy.  Suppose  you  were 
to  leave  it  to  me  ?" 

"What  good  would  that  do  ?  If  that  old  witch  is  putting 
it  round,  the  only  thing  for  Evie  and  me  to  do  is  t*  contra- 
dict her." 

"Has  Evie  ever  given  you  an  idea  that  anything  was 
wrong  f" 

"'^vie's  been  the  devil.  I  don't  mind  saying  it  to  you, 
because  you  understand  the  kind  of  devil  she'd  be.  But 
Lord!  I  don't  care.  It's  just  her  way.  She's  told  me 
to  go  to  the  deuce  half  a  dozen  times,  but  she  knows  I 
won't  till  she  comes  with  me.     Oh,  no.     Evie's  all  right — " 

"Yes,  of  course,  Evie's  all  right.  But  you  know,  Billy 
dear,  this  thing  requires  a  great  deal  of  management  and 
straightening  out,  and  I  do  wish  you'd  let  me  take  charge 
of  it.  I  know  every  one  concerned,  you  see,  so  that  I  could 
do  it  better  than  any  one — any  one  but  you,  I  mean — " 

"  I  understand  that  all  right.  I'm  not  going  to  be  rough 
on  them,  but  all  the  same — " 

She  got  him  to  sit  down  at  last,  made  tea  for  him,  and 
223 


■  ^ 


]T  H  E        W  I  L^D        OLIVE 

toothed  him.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  had  undertaken 
not  to  molest  Miss  Jarrott,  or  to  fight  that  "confounded 
South-American,"  or  to  say  a  word  of  any  kind  to  Evie  till 
she  was  ready  to  say  a  word  to  him.  He  became  impressed 
with  the  necessity  for  diplomatic  action  and,  after  some 
persuasion,  promised  to  submit  to  guidance — ai  any  rate, 
for  a  time. 

"And  now,  Billy,  I'm  going  to  write  a  note.  The  first 
thing  to  be  done  is  that  you  should  find  Mr.  Strange  and 
deliver  it  to  him  before  nine  o'clock  this  evening.  You'll 
do  it  quietly,  won't  you  ?  and  not  let  him  see  that  you  are 
anything  more  than  my  messenger.  No  matter  where  he  is, 
even  in  a  private  house,  you  must  see  that  he  gets  the  note, 
if  at  all  possible." 

When  he  had  sworn  to  this  she  wrote  a  few  lines  hurriedly. 
He  carried  them  away  in  the  same  tumultuous  haste  with 
which  he  had  come.  After  his  departure  she  felt  herself 
unexpectedly  stiong  and  calm. 


XVIII 


|HE  feeling  of  being  equal  to  anything  she 
might  have  to  face  continued  with  her. 
Now  that  the  moment  for  action  had  ar- 
rived, she  had  confidence  in  her  ability  to 
meet  it,  since  it  had  to  be  done.  At  dinner 
she  was  ab!e  to  talk  to  Wayne  on  indifferent  topics,  and 
later,  when  he  had  retired  to  his  den  to  practise  his  Braile, 
she  sat  down  in  the  drawing-room  with  a  book.  Noticing 
that  she  wore  the  severe  black  dress  in  which  she  had 
assisted  at  the  "killing  off"  of  Evie's  family,  she  brightened 
it  with  a  few  unobtrusive  jewels,  so  as  to  look  less  like  the 
Tragic  Muse.  The  night  being  cold,  a  cheerful  fire  burned 
on  the  hearth,  beside  which  she  sat  down  and  waited. 

When  he  was  shown  in,  about  half-past  eight,  it  seemed 
to  her  best  not  to  rise  to  receive  him.  Something  in  her 
repose,  or  in  her  dignity,  gave  him  the  impression  of  arriv- 
ing before  a  tribunal,  and  he  began  his  explanations  almost 
from  the  doorway. 

"I  got  your  note.  Young  Merrow  caught  me  at  dinner. 
I  was  dining  alone,  so  that  I  could  come  at  once." 

"You're  very  kind.  I'm  glad  you  were  able  to  do  it. 
Won't  you  sit  down  f" 

Without  offering  her  hand,  she  indicated  a  high  arm- 
chair, suitable  for  a  man,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth. 
He  seated  himself  with  an  air  of  expectation,  while  she 
22$ 


THE       ff  I  L  D        OLIVE 

fiwd  peiuivdy  at  the  fin,  tpaaking  at  last  without  looking 
up. 

"I  hear  Min  Janott  has  begun  to  announce  your  ci^ 
gagement  to  Evie." 

"I  undentood  ihe  was  going  to,  to  a  few  intimal* 
friends." 

"And  you  allowed  itT 

"A»  you  see." 

"Didn't  you  know  that  I  should  have  to  take  that  for  a 
signal  ?" 

"I've  never  given  you  to  understand  that  a  signal  wouldn't 
come — if  you  required  one." 

"No;  but  I  hoped—"  She  broke  oflT,  continuing  to  gaae 
at  the  fire.  "iSo  you  remember,"  she  began  again — ^"do 
you  remember  telling  me — that  evening  on  the  shore  ct 
Lake  Champlain— just  before  you  went  away — that  if  ever 
I  needed  your  life,  it  would  be  at  my  disposal  ? — to  do  with 
•i  I  chose  Y' 

"I  do." 

"Then  I'm  going  to  claim  it."  She  did  not  look  up,  hot 
•he  heard  him  change  his  position  in  his  chair.  "  I  shouldn't 
do  it  if  there  was  any  other  way.  I'm  sure  you  undersund 
that.  Don't  you?"  she  insisted,  glancing  at  him  for  aa 
answer. 

"I  know  you  wouldn't  do  it,  unless  you  were  convinced 
there  was  a  reason." 

"I've  tried  to  be  just  to  you,  and  to  see  things  from  your 
point  of  view.  I  do;  I  assure  you.  If  I  were  in  your 
position  I  should  feel  as  you  do.  But  I'm  not  in  your 
position.  I'm  in  one  of  great  responsibili^,  toward  Evie 
•nd  toward  her  friends." 

"I  don't  see  what  you  owe  to  them." 
226 


iiii 

■11    : 

I   :::i| 

mill 

In 

t 

THE 


WILD        OLIVE 


"I  owe  them  the  loyalty  that  every  human  being  owe* 
to  every  other." 

"To  every  other — except  me." 

"I'm  loyal  to  you,  at  least,  whoever  else  may  not  be. 
But  it  wouldn't  be  loyalty  if  I  let  you  marry  Evie.  I'm 
going  to  ask  you — not  to  do  it — to  go  away — to  leave  her 
alone — to  go — for  good." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  hoarse- 
ly, but  otherwise  without  change  of  tone. 

"Is  that  what  you  meant? — ^just  now?" 

"Yes.    That's  what  I  meant." 

"Do  you  intend  me  to  get  out  of  New  York,  to  go  back 
to  the  South —  ?" 

She  lifted  her  hand  in  protestation. 

"I'm  not  giving  orders  or  making  conditions.  New 
York  is  large.     There's  room  in  it  for  you  and  Evie,  too." 

"I  dare  say.  One  doe'.n't  require  much  space  to  break 
one's  heart  in." 

"Evie  wouldn't  break  her  heart.  I  know  her  better  than 
you  do.  She'd  suffer  for  a  while,  but  she'd  get  over  it, 
and  in  the  end,  very  soon  probably — marry  some  one 
dse." 

"How  cruel  you  can  be,"  he  said,  with  a  twisted  smile. 

"I  can  be,  when  it's  right.  In  this  case  I'm  only  as 
cruel  as — the  truth.  I'm  saying  it  because  it  must  make 
things  easier  for  you.  Your  own  pain  will  be  the  less  from 
the  knowledge  that,  in  time,  Evie  will  get  over  hers." 

"I  suppose  it  ought  to  be,  but — " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  and  again  there  was  a 
long  hush,  during  which,  while  she  continued  to  gaze  pen- 
lively  at  the  fire,  she  could  hear  him  shifting  with  nervous 
frequency  in  his  chair.  When  at  last  she  ventured  to  look 
227 


THE        If'  I  L   D        OLIVE 


■■!!  n, 


Hf 


If 
.  -   ■    I 


at  him  he  was  bowed  forward,  his  elbow  supported  on  his 
knee,  and  his  forehead  resting  on  his  hand. 

"You'll  keep  your  promise  to  me?"  she  persisted,  softly, 
with  a  kind  of  pitiful  relentlessness. 

"I'll  tell  you  in  a  minute." 

He  jerked  out  the  words  in  the  brusque  way  in  which  a 
man  says  all  that,  for  the  moment,  he  is  physically  able  to 
utter.  She  allowed  more  time  to  elapse.  The  roar  of 
traffic  and  the  clanging  of  electric  trams  came  up  from  the 
street  below,  but  no  sound  seemed  able  to  penetrate  the 
stillness  in  which  they  sat.  As  far  as  Miriam  was  con- 
scious of  herself  at  all,  it  was  simply  to  note  the  curious 
deadness  of  her  emotions,  as  though  she  had  become  a 
mere  machine  for  doing  right,  Hke  a  clock  that  strikes 
punctually.  Nevertheless,  it  caused  her  some  surprise  when 
he  raised  himself  and  said,  in  a  voice  that  would  have  been 
casual  on  a  common  occasion: 

"I  suppose  you  think  me  a  cad  ?" 

"No;  why  should  1  ?" 

"Because  I  am  one." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  say  that,  or  what  it  hai 
to  do  with — anything." 

"It's  about  that — that — promise." 

"Ohl" 

"Do  you  mind  if  we  speak  quite  frankly?  I  should  like 
to.  I've  been  bluffing  that  point  ever  since  you  and  I  met 
again.  It's  been  torture  to  have  to  do  it — damned,  humili- 
ating torture;  but  it's  been  difficult  to  do  anything  else. 
You  see,  I  couldn't  even  speak  of  it  without  seeming  to — ^to 
insult  you — that  is,  unless  you  took  me  in  just  the  right  way." 

His  look,  his  attitude,  the  tones  of  his  voice,  the  something 
woe-begone  and  yet  boyish  in  his  expression,  recalled  irre- 
228 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

■stibly  the  days  in  the  cabin,  when  he  often  wore  just  thii 
»ir.  She  had  observed  before  that  when  they  were  alone 
together  the  years  seemed  to  fall  from  his  manner,  while  he 
became  the  immature,  inexperienced  young  fugitive  again. 
She  had  scarcely  expected,  however,  that  this  lapse  into 
J^uth  would  occur  to-night.  She  i-erself  felt  ages  old— as 
though  all  the  ends  of  the  world  had  come  upon  her. 

"You  may  say  anything  you  like.  There's  nothing  you 
eould  possibly  tell  me  that  I  shouldn't  understand." 

"Well,  then,  when  I  made  that  promise,  I  meant  to  keep 
It.  and  to  keep  it  in  a  specia  way.  I  thought-of  course  we 
were  both  very  young-but  I  thought  that,  after  what  had 
happened — " 

"  Wait  a  minute.  I  want  to  tell  you  something  before  you 
80  on."  She  rallied  her  spirit's  forces  for  a  desperate  step 
gathermg  all  her  life's  possible  happiness  into  one  extrava- 
gant handful,  and  flinging  it  away,  in  order  to  save  her 
pnde  before  this  man,  who  was  about  to  tell  her  that  he  had 
never  been  able  to  love  her.  "What  I  am  going  to  say  may 
strike  you  as  irrelevant;  but  if  it  is,  you  can  ignore  it.  I 
expect  to  be  married— in  a  little  while— it's  practically  a 
settled  thing— to  Charies  Conquest,  whom  I  think  you 
know.  Now,  will  you  go  on,  please  ?" 
He  stared  at  her  in  utter  blankness. 
"Good  God!" 

He  got  up  and  took  a  few  restless  turns  up  and  down  the 

•oom,   his   head   bent,   his   hands   behind   his   back.     He 

reseated  himself  when  his  confused  impressions  grew  clearer. 

"So  that  it  doesn't  matter  what  1  thought  about— that 

promise  ?" 

"Not  in  the  least."    She  had  saved  herself.     "The  one 
*ing  important  to  me  is  that  you  should  have  made  it." 

229 


THE        WILD         OLIVE 


4 


i  ' 


"And  that  you  can  hold  me  to  it,"  he  added,  tersely. 

"I  presume  I  can  do  that  ?" 

"You  can,  unless — unless  I  find  myself  in  a  position  to 
take  the  promise  back." 

"I  can  hardly  see  how  that  position  could  come  about," 
she  said,  with  an  air  of  wondering. 

"I  can.  You  see,"  he  went  en  in  an  explanatory  tone, 
"it  was  an  unusual  sort  of  promise — a  promise  made,  so 
to  speak,  for  value  received — for  unusual  value  received. 
It  wasn't  one  that  a  common  occasion  would  have  called 
forth.     It  was  offered  because  you  had  given  me — life." 

He  rested  his  arm  now  on  a  table  that  stood  between  them 
and,  leaning  toward  her,  looked  her  steadily  in  the  eyes. 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  you're  going  to  say," 
ihe  remarked,  rather  blankly. 

"No,  but  you'll  see.  You  gave  me  life.  I  hold  that  life 
in  a  certain  sense  at  your  pleasure.  It  is  at  your  disposal. 
It  must  remain  at  your  disposal — until  I  give  it  back." 

She  sat  upright  in  her  chair,  leaning  in  her  turn  on  the 
table,  and  drawing  nearer  to  hira. 

"I  can't  imagine  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  under  her 
breath  and  looking  a  little  frightened. 

"You'll  see  presently.  But  don't  be  alarmed.  It's  go- 
ing to  be  all  right.  As  long  as  I  hold  the  life  you  gave  me," 
he  continued  to  explain,  "I  must  do  your  liidding.  I'm  not 
a  free  man;  I'm — don't  be  offended— I'm  your  creature. 
I  don't  say  I  was  a  free  man  before  this  came  up.  I  haven't 
been  a  free  man  ever  since  I've  been  Herbei '  Strange.  I've 
been  the  slave  of  a  sort  of  make-believe.  I've  made  believe, 
and  I've  felt  I  was  justified.  Perhaps  I  was.  I'm  not  quite 
sure.  But  I  haven't  liked  it;  and  now  I  begin  to  feel  that 
I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  You  foU&w  n-.c,  don't  you  ?" 
230 


THE WILD        OLIVE 

She  nodded,  st'Il  leaning  toward  him  across  the  table, 
and  not  taking  her  eyes  from  his.  He  remembered  after- 
ward, though  he  paid  no  heed  to  it  at  the  time,  how  those 
eyes  grew  wide  with  awe  and  flashed  with  strange,  lambent 
brightness. 

"I  told  you  a  few  days  ago,"  he  pursued,  "that  there 
were  times  when  it  was  hell.  That  was  putting  it  mildly — 
too  mildly.  There's  been  no  time  when  it  wasn't  hell — in 
here."  He  tapped  his  forehead.  "I've  struggled,  and 
fought,  and  pushed,  and  swaggered,  and  bluffed,  and  had 
ups  and  downs,  and  taken  heart,  and  swaggered  and  bluffed 
again,  and  lied  all  through — and  I've  made  Herbert  Strange 
a  respectable  man  of  business  on  the  high  road  to  success. 
But  when  I  come  near  you  it  all  goes  to  pieces — like  one  of 
those  curiously  conserved  dead  bodies  when  they're  brought 
to  the  air.  There's  nothing  to  them.  There's  nothing  to 
me — so  'ong  as  I'm  Herbert  Strange." 

"But  you  are  Herbert  Strange.  You  can't  help  yourself 
— now." 

"Herbert  Strange  goes  back  into  the  nothingness  out  of 
which  he  was  born  the  minute  I  become  Norrie  Ford  again." 
"But  you  can't  do  that!" 
She  drew  herself  up  hastily,  with  a  gasp. 
"  It's  exactly  what  I  mean  to  do."     He  spoke  very  slow- 
ly.    "I'm  going  to  be  a  free  man,  and  my  own  master,  even 
if  it  leads  me  where — ^where  they  meant  to  put  me  when 
you  snatched  me  away.     I'm  going  back  tD  my  fellow-men, 
to  the  body  corporate — " 

She  rose  in  agitation,  and  drew  back  from  him  toward 
the  chimney-piece.  "So  that  if^if  anything  happens," 
•he  said,  "I  shall  have  driven  you  to  it.  That's  how  you 
get  your  revenge." 

231 


THE       W  I  L  D 


o  L  I  r  B 


Jl 

j! 

\\ 

,     ^i        \ 

'        ^\ 

"Not  at  all.  I'm  not  coming  to  this  decision  suddenly, 
or  in  a  spirit  of  revenge,  in  any  way."  He  followed  her, 
Kanding  neat  her,  on  the  hearth-rug.  "I  can  truthfully 
«ay,"  he  went  on  in  his  slow,  explanatory  fashion,  that 
there's  been  no  time,  since  the  minute  I  made  my  first  dash 
for  liberty,  when  I  haven't  known,  in  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  what  a  good  thing  it  would  have  been  if  I  hadnt 
done  it.  I've  come  to  see-I've  had  to-that  the  death- 
chair  would  have  been  better,  with  self-respect,  than  free- 
dom to  go  and  come,  with  the  necessity  to  gag  every  one, 
every  minute  of  the  day.  and  every  day  in  the  year,  and  aU 
the  time,  with  lies.^^  If  that  seems  far-fetched  to  you- 
"No,  it  doesn't." 

"Well  if  it  did  you'd  see  it  wasn't,  if  you  were  m  my 
place  for  a  month.  1  didn't  mind  it  so  much  at  first.  I 
rtood  it  by  day  and  just  suffered  by  night-till  the  Jarrottt 
began  to  be  so  kind  to  me,  and  I  came  to  New  York-and 
—and— and  Eviel"  , 

"I'm  sorry  I've  spoken  to  you  as  I  have,  she  iaid, 
hastily.    "If  I'd  known  you  felt  like  that—" 

"You  were  quite  right.  I  always  understood  that.  But 
I  can't  go  on  with  it.    If  Evie  marries  me  now,  it  shaU  be 

knowing  who  I  am."  -.i    .  n  v.  ,?- 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  could  possibly  tell  herr 
"I'm  going  to  tell  every  one."  .  .     -, 

She  stifled  a  little  cry.  "Then  it  will  be  my  doingr 
"It  will  be  your  doing-up  to  a  point.  But  it  will  be 
«,mething  for  you  to  be  proud  of.  not  to  regret  You^ 
only  brought  my  mistake  so  clearly  before  me  that  even  I 
can't  stand  it-when  I've  stood  so  much.  You  ask  me  » 
turn  my  back  on  Evie  and  sneak  away.  You  ve  got  the 
rieht  to  command,  and  there's  nothing  for  me  but  to  obey 
^  232 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

you.  But  I  can't  help  seeing  the  sort  of  life  that  would 
be  left  to  me  after  I'd  carried  out  your  orders.  It  wouldn't 
only  be  the  loss  of  Evie— I  may  lose  her  in  any  case— it 
would  be  the  loss  of  everything  within  myself  that's  enabled 
me  hitherto  merely  to  hold  up  my  head— and  bluff." 

"I   might  withdraw  what  I've  just  asked  you  to  da 
Perhaps  we  could  find  some  other  way." 
He  laughed  with  grim  lightness. 

"You're    weakening.    That's    not    like    you.     KnA    k 
wouldn't  do  any  good  now.     Even  if  we  did  patch  up 
some  other  scheme,  there  would  still   remain  what  you 
talked  about  a  minute  ago— the  loyalty  that  every  human 
being  owes  to  every  other." 
"But  I  thought  you  didn't  recognize  that?" 
"I  said  I  didn't.     But  in  here"— he  tapped  his  fingeti 
over  the  heart- "I  did,  and  I  do.    You've  brought  me  to 
see  it." 
"That's  very  noble,  but  you  saw  it  for  yourself—" 
"Through  a  glass— darkly;  now  I  can  look  at  the  thing 
in  clear  daylight,  and  see  what  I  hrve  to  do." 

She  dropped  into  her  chair  again,  looking  up  at  him. 
He  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  holding  his  head 
high,  his  bearing  marked  by  a  dogged,  perhaps  forced, 
serenity. 

"But  what  can  you  do  ?"  she  asked,  after  considering  hii 
words.  "You're  so  involved.  All  this  business— and  the 
people  in  South  America — " 

"Oh,  there  are  ways  and  means.  I  haven't  made  plans, 
but  I've  thought,  from  time  to  time,  of  what  I  should  do  if 
I  ever  came  to  just  this  pass.  The  first  thing  would  be  to 
tell  the  few  people  who  are  most  concerned,  confidentially. 
Then  I  should  go  back  to  South  America,  and  settle  thing! 
i33 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

up  out  there.    When  I  had  done  that,  I  should  return  to 
New  York  and  tell — the  police." 

"I  couldn't  let  you.  I  couldn't  endure  it.  It  would  kill 
me." 

He  smiled  down  at  her,  rather  cruelly. 

"Oh  no,  it  wouldn't.  You'd  have  married  Conquest  bjr 
that  time,  and  become  reconciled  to  my  fate,  like  me." 

She  ignored  the  thrust,  and  spoke  eagerly. 

"And  what  would  that  be — your  fate  ?" 

"I  don't  know  just  yet.  I'm  not  very  strong  on  points 
of  law.  I  suppose  they  could  carry  out  the  old  sentenc* 
without  further  notice;  or  perhaps  they  would  give  mc  a 
new  trial." 

"And  if  they  did  give  you  a  new  trial — ^what  then  ?" 

"Then  I  hope  I  should  get  off." 

"And  if  you  didn't?" 

"If  I  didn't,  I  fancy  I  should  have  to  take — the — ** 

"You  mustn't  do  it."  She  spoke  with  conviction,  and 
sprang  up  again.  "You  mustn't  do  it,"  she  repeated. 
"You  mustn't  run  the  r'sk." 

Without  moving  in  any  way,  he  eyed  her  aslant,  a  smile, 
not  too  bitter,  trembling  about  his  lips. 

"You  probably  think  the  risk  would  be  greater  than  I 
do,  because  your  convictions — " 

"I  have  no  convictions.  If  you  say  you  didn't  do  it  I'm 
ready  to  believe  you.  I  don't  see  that  it  matters  so  veijr 
much — if  bo  drove  you  to  it — " 

"It  .-natters  to  me."  He  smiled  again  to  see  that  the 
wild  olive  had  not  yet  been  grafted. 

"If  they  found  you  guilty  once,"  she  argued,  "they  majr 
do  it  again." 

"Exactly;   but  I  should  have  my  chance." 
»34 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

"  Promise  me  you  won't  take  it,"  she  demanded  desper- 
ately. 'I'll  do  anything.  I'M  do  anything  you  ask.  I'U 
give  m  without  conditions.  You  shall  marry  Evie,  and  I 
will  never,  never  say  a  word." 

"But  it's  too  late,"  he  reasoned.     "Don't  you  see  that? 
After  pointing  out  the  right  road  all  these  months,  you  can't 
push  me  back  into  the  wrong." 
"I  never  dreamed  of  your  taking  this  road  at  all." 
"I  dare  say  not.     But  you've  inspired  the  principle-and 
It  s  for  me  to  work  it  out.    You've  given  me  a  foretaste  of 
the  joy  of  being  honest-of  being  able  to  speak  out,  to  be 
myself,  to  tell  the  truth-of  getting  rid  of  the  dodging  and 
wngglmg    snd    squirming-of   being    delivered    from    the 
daily  the  hourly,  terror  of  detection.     I  want  to  be  the  man 
that  God  made  and  not  a  creature  called  up  out  of  nightmare. 
What  do  I  care  how  it  ends  so  long  as  I  can  stand  free 
just  once,  on  my  own  feet,  before  the  world  and  say  'Yes' 
Im  Norrie  Ford'?"  ^  ' 

"Don't  you  care  how  it  ends  for  Evie  ?" 
"I  do;  and  I  believe  she'll  be  happier  this  way-in  the 
long  run.  I  ve  kicked  against  the  pricks  and  shirked  it 
too  many  years  not  to  know  it.  She'll  suffer  less  in  beine 
true  to  me,  while  I  fight  my  way,  than  if  I  were  to  turn  my 
back  on  her  and  shuffle  out  of  her  existence.  She'll  be 
true  to  me;  you'll  see.  I'll  win  in  the  end,  and  she  will 
marry  a  man  and  not  a  shadow." 

"But  if  you  went  on,"  she  pleaded,  "just  as  you  had 
planned— and  I  didn't  say  anything?" 

"You'd   despise   me.     You've   shown   me  that   already 

You  d  despise  me  and  you'd  be  right.     It  would  be  all  venr 

well  for  the  minute.     It  would  be  an  easy  way  out  of  a 

painful  fix.     But  afterward,  when  I'd  taken  it,  you'd  nerer 

235 


THE 


WILD        O   L  I   y  B 


pre  me  your  respect  ag»in-not  even  the  little  you  ve  pre- 
me  hitherto-and  God  know,  that  cant  have  been  much. 
I  could  stand  anything  in  the  world-anything-rather  than 
that  you  should  come  to  that."  ...  .. 

"But  I  shouldn't,  when  I  myself  had  dissuaded  you- 
"No,  no;  don't  try.  You'd  be  doing  wrong.  You  ve 
been  to  me  so  high  and  holy  that  I  don't  like  to  think  you 
haven't  the  strength  to  go  on  to  the  end.  I  ve  got  it,  bec-u« 
you've  given  it  me.  Don't  detract  from  your  own  gift  by 
ho'ding  me  back  from  using  it.  You  found  me  a  prisoner 
-or  an  escaped  one-and  I've  been  a  prisoner  all  these 
years,  the  prisoner  of  something  worse  than  chains.  Now 
I'm  Roing  free.  Look!"  he  cried,  with  sudden  inspiration. 
"I'll  show  you  how  it's  done.    You'll  see  how  easy  it  T,iB 

be." 

He  moved  to  cross  the  room. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  .    ,      ..    c 

She  sprang  up  as  if  to  hold  him  back,  but  his  finger  wai 

"""You^dln't  mind,  I  hope?"  he  asked;  but  he  had  rung 
before  she  could  give  an  answer.     The  maid  appeared  m 

"A^TlT  Wayne  if  he  would  be  good  enough  to  come 
in   here   a   minute.     Tell   him   Mr.   Strange   particularly 

wants  to  see  him."  ,      c     • .      „l..^  k, 

He  went  back  to  his  place  by  the  fireside,  where  he 
stood  apparently  calm,  showing  no  sign  of  excitement  ex- 
cept in  heightened  color  and  the  stillness  of  nervous  ten- 
sion.   Miriam  sank  into  her  chair  again. 

"Don't  do  anything  rash."  she  pleaded.     "Wait  till  to- 
morrow.    There  will  always  be  time,     ^or  God  s  sake! 
If  he  heard  her  he  paid  no  attention,  and  presently  Wayae 
236 


I!    -t 


THE       ff^  I  L   D        OLIVE 

appeared.  He  heaitated  a  minute  on  the  threshold,  and 
during  that  instant  Ford  could  see  that  he  looked  ashy  and 
older,  as  if  something  had  aged  him  suddenly.  His  hand* 
trembled,  too,  as  he  felt  his  way  in. 

"Good-evening,"  he  said,  speaking  into  the  air  as  blind 
men  do.     "I  thought  I  heard  your  voice." 

Having  groped  his  way  across  the  room  and  reached  the 
table  that  stood  between  the  arm-chairs  Miriam  and  Ford 
had  occupied,  he  stopped.  He  stood  there,  with  fingers 
drumming  soundlessly  on  the  polished  wood,  waiting  for 
tome  one  to  speak. 

In  spite  of  the  confidence  with  which  he  had  rung  the 
bell,  Ford  found  it  difficult  now  to  begin.  It  was  only  after 
one  or  two  inarticulate  attempts  that  he  was  able  to  say 
anything. 

"I  asked  you  to  come  in,  sir,"  he  began,  haltingly,  "to 
tell  you  something  very  special.  Miss  Strange  knows  it 
already.  ...  If  I've  done  wrong  in  not  telling  you  before 
.  .  .  you'll  see  I'm  prepared  to  take  my  punishment.  . .  .  My 
name  isn't  Strange  ...  it  isn't  Herbert." 

"I  know  it  isn't." 

The  words  slipped  out  in  a  sharp  tone,  not  quite  nervous, 
but  thin  and  worn.  Miriam's  attitude  grew  tense.  Ford 
took  a  step  forward  from  the  fireside.  With  his  arm  flung 
over  the  back  of  his  chair,  and  his  knee  resting  on  the  seat 
of  it,  he  strained  across  the  table,  as  if  to  annihilate  the 
space  between  Wayne  and  himself." 

"You  knewr 

The  blind  man  nodded.  When  he  spoke  it  was  again 
into  the  air. 

"Yes;    I  knew.    You're  Norrie  Ford.     I  ought  to  say 
I've  only  known  it  latterly — about  a  fortnight  now." 
16  237 


r^'w 

f 

THE       ff^  I  L  D        OLIVE 

"How?" 

"Oh,  it  just  came  to  me — by  degrees,  I  think." 

"Why  didn't  you  say  lomething  about  it  ?" 

"  I  thought  I  wouldn't.  It  has  worried  me,  but  I  thought 
I'd  keep  still." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  were  going  to  let  everything — 
go  on  ?" 

"I  weighed  all  the  considerations.  That's  the  decision 
I  came  to.  You  must  understand,"  he  went  on  to  explain, 
in  a  voice  that  was  now  tremulous  as  well  as  thin,  "that  I'd 
had  you  a  good  deal  on  my  mind,  during  these  past  eight 
years.  I  sentenced  you  to  death  when  I  almost  knew  you 
were  innocent.  It  was  my  duty.  I  couldn't  help  it.  The 
facts  told  dead  against  you.  Every  one  admitted  that. 
True,  the  evidence  might  have  been  twisted  to  tell  against 
old  Gramm  and  his  wife,  hut  they  hadn't  been  dissipated, 
and  they  hadn't  been  indicted,  and  they  hadn't  gone  round 
making  threats  against  Chris  Ford's  life  like  you." 

"I  difln't  mean  them.  It  was  nothing  but  a  boy't 
rage— 

"Yes,  but  you  made  them;  and  when  the  old  man  wai 
found —  But  I'll  not  go  into  that  now.  I  only  want  to 
•ay  that,  while  I  couldn't  acquit  you  with  my  intelligence, 
I  felt  constrained  to  do  it  in  my  heart,  especially  when  every- 
thing was  over,  and  it  was  too  late.  The  incident  has  been 
the  one  thing  in  my  professional  career  that  I've  most 
regretted.  I  don't  quite  blame  myself  I  had  to  do  my 
duty.  And  yet  it  was  a  relief  to  me  when  you  got  away. 
I  don't  know  that  I  could  have  acted  differently,  but — but 
I  liked  you.  I've  gone  on  liking  you.  I've  often  thought 
about  you,  and  wondered  what  had  become  of  you.  And 
one  day — not  long  ago— as  I  was  going  over  the  old  ground 


THE        tV  I   L   D        OLIVE 

once  more,  I  saw  I'd  been  thinking  about— ;iou.    That'* 
bow  it  came  to  me." 

"And  you  were  going  to  remain  ijlent,  and  let  me  many 
Evie  ?" 
The  blind  man  reflected. 

"I  saw  what  was  to  be  said  against  it.  But  I  weighed 
all  the  evidence  carefully.  Vou  were  an  injured  man; 
you'd  made  a  great  fight  and  you'd  won— as  far  as  one 
man  can  win  against  the  world.  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  I  wasn't  called  on  to  strike  you  down  a  second  time, 
after  you'd  scrambled  up  so  pluckily.  Evie  is  very  dear 
to  me;  I  don't  say  that  I  should  see  her  married  to  you 
without  some  misgiving;  but  I  decided  thut  )<.u  deserved 
her.  It  was  a  great  responsibility  to  t.ike,  but  I  took  it 
and  made  up  my  mind  to — let  her  go." 

"Oh,  you're  a  good  man!  I  didn't  think  there  was  such 
mercy  in  the  world." 

Ford  flung  out  the  words  in  a  cry  that  was  half  a  groan 
and  half  a  shout  of  triumph.  Miriam  choktd  back  a  sob. 
The  neat  little  man  shrugged  his  shoulders  dcprecatingly. 
"There's  one  thing  I  should  like  to  ask."  he  pursued, 
among  the  many  that  I  don't  know  anything  about,  and 
that  I  don't  care  to  inquire  into.  How  did  you  come  by 
the  name  of  this  lady's  father,  my  old  friend  Herbert 
Strange  V 

Ford  and  Miriam  exchanged  swift  glances.  She  shook 
her  head,  and  he  took  his  cue. 

"I  happened  to  see  it  in  a— a  sort  of— paper.  I  had  no 
Idea  It  was  that  of  a  real  person.  I  fancied  it  had  come  out 
of  a  novel-or  something  like  that.  I  didn't  mean  to  keep 
It,  but  It  got  fastened  on  me." 

"Very  odd,"  was  his  only  comment.  " Isn't  it,  Miriam  ? 
ajg 


K  ii  it 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

Now,"  he  added,  "I  suppose  you've  had  all  you  want  of  me, 
80  I'll  say  good-night." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  which  Ford  grasped,  clinched 
rather,  in  both  his  own. 

"God  bless  you!"  Wayne  murmured,  still  tremulously. 
"God  bless  you— my  boy,  and  bring  everything  out  right. 
Miriam,  I  suppose  you'll  come  in  and  see  me  before  you 
go  to  bed." 

They  watched  him  shuffle  his  way  out  of  the  room,  and 
watched  the  door  long  after  he  had  closed  it.  When  at  last 
Miriam  turned  her  eyes  on  Ford  they  were  luminous  with 
the  relief  of  her  own  defeat. 

"You  seel"  she  cried,  triumphantly.    "You  see  the  dif- 
ference between  him  and  me:— between  his  spirit  and  minel 
Now  which  of  us  was  right  f 
•  "You  were." 


m% 


XIX 


HE  one  thing  clear  to  Miriam  on  the  following 
day  was  that  she  had  ruined  everything  with 
astonishing  completeness — a  curious  result  to 
come  from  what  she  was  firmly  convinced 
il  was  "doing  right."  She  had  calculated  that, 
by  a  moderate  measure  of  suflFering  to  Evie,  and  a  large  one 
to  Ford,  Evie's  ultimate  welfare  at  least  would  be  secured. 
Now  everything  was  being  brought  to  grief  together.  Out 
of  such  a  wreck  nothing  could  be  saved. 

With  Ford's  desire  to  break  the  force  which  made  him  an 
impostor  she  had  sympathy,  but  his  willingness  to  risk  his 
life  in  order  to  be  in  harmony  with  law  and  order  again  was 
not  so  easy  for  her  to  understand.  While  education,  train- 
ing, and  taste  kept  her,  in  her  own  person,  within  the 
restrictions  of  civilized  life,  yet  the  part  of  a  free-lance  in 
the  world  appealed  to  her  strongly  atavistic  instincts  far 
more  directly  than  membership  in  a  disciplined  regular 
army.  The  guerilla  fighter  must  of  necessity  be  put  to 
shifts — even  moral  shifts — which  the  common  soldier, 
trained  and  commanded  by  others,  can  be  spared;  but  her 
heart  was  with  the  man  roving  in  the  hills  on  his  own  account. 
That  Ford  should  deliberately  seek  chains  in  barracks,  when 
by  her  surrender  on  the  subject  of  Evie  she  had  made  it 
possible  for  him  still  to  keep  the  liberty  of  the  field,  was  to 
her  at  once  incomprehensible  and  awful.  She  had  not  only 
241 


THE        JF  I  L   D        0   L    I   F  E 


m 


li' 


i  •>: 


the  sense  of  watching  a  man  rushing  upon  Fate,  but  the 
knowledge  that  she  heiself  had  given  him  the  impetus; 
while  she  was  fully  alive  to  the  fact  that  when  he  fell 
ererythmg  she  cared  for  in  the  world  would  fall  with  him. 

Her  mmd  was  too  resourceful,  her  spirit  too  energetic,  to 
permit  of  her  sitting  in  helpless  anguish  over  his  new  deter- 
mination. She  was  already  busy  with  plans  for  counter- 
acting him,  in  one  of  which  at  least  she  saw  elements  of 
hope.  Having  conceived  its  possibilities,  she  was  eager  to 
go  and  test  them;  but  she  had  decided  not  to  leave  the  house 
until  she  knew  that  Ford  was  really  putting  his  plans  into 
execution.  The  minute  Evie  learned  the  fatal  news  she 
would  have  need  of  her,  and  she  dared  not  put  herself  out 
of  the  child's  reach.  Her  first  duty  must  be  toward  the 
fragile  little  creature,  who  would  be  crushed  like  a  trampled 
flower. 

Shortly  before  noon  she  was  summoned  to  the  telephone, 
where  Evie  was  asking  if  she  should  find  her  in.  Miriam 
judged  from  the  tones  of  the  transmitted  voice  that  the 
worst  had  been  made  known.  She  was  not,  however, 
prepared  for  the  briskness  with  which,  ten  minutes  later, 
Evie  whisked  into  the  room,  her  cheeks  aglow  with  excite- 
ment,  and  her  heavenly  eyes  dancing  with  a  purely  earthijr 
sparkle. 

"Isn't  this  awful  f"she  cried,  before  Miriam  could  take 
her  into  her  loving  arms.  "Isn't  it  appalling?  But  it'» 
not  a  surprise  to  me — not  in  the  least.  I  knew  there  was 
something  Haven't  I  said  so?  I  almost  knew  that  his 
name  wasn't  Strange.  If  I  hadn't  been  so  busy  with  my 
coming  out — and  everything — I  should  have  been  sure  of 
k.  I  haven't  had  time  to  think  of  it — do  you  see  ?  With  a 
hnch  somewhere  every  day  at  half-past  one,"  she  hurried 
241 


E 


r ^H  E        WILD        O    L   I  V  E 

on,  breathlessly,  "and  a  tea  at  half-past  four,  and  a  dinner 
at  eight,  and  a  dance  at  eleven,  and  very  likely  the  theatre 
or  the  opera  in  between — ^well,  you  can  see  I  haven't  been 
able  to  give  much  attention  to  anything  else,  but  I  knew, 
from  the  very  time  when  I  was  in  Buenos  Aires,  that  there 
was  something  queer  about  that  name.  I  never  saw  a  man 
■o  Knsitive  when  any  one  spoke  about  his  name,  not  in  all 
my  life  before — and  you  know  down  there  it's  the  com- 
■aonest  thing — why,  they're  so  suspicious  on  that  point  that 
they'd  almost  doubt  that  mine  was  Evie  Colfax  " 

She  threw  her  muff  in  one  direction,  her  boa  in  another, 
and  her  gloves  in  still  another. 

"But,  Evie  darling,  you  surely  didn't  think — " 
"Of  course  I  never  thought  of  anything  like  this.    I 
didn't  really  think  of  anything  at  all.     If  I'd  begun  to  give 
my  mind  to  it,  I  should  probably  have  hit  on  somethmg  a 
great  deal  worse  " 

"What  do  you  mean,  dear  ?  Worse — than  what  ?" 
"Worse  than  just  being  accused  of  shooting  your  uncle — 
and  it  was  only  his  great-uncle,  too.  I  might  have  thought 
of  forgery  or  something  dishonor  "ile,  though  I  should 
know  he  wasn't  capable  of  it.  Being  accused  isn't  much. 
You  can  accuse  any  onf—you  could  accuse  me  That 
doesn't  prove  anything  when  he  says  he  didn't  do  it.  Of 
course  he  didn't  do  it.  Can't  any  one  see?  My  goodness! 
I  wish  they'd  let  me  make  the  laws.  Td  show  them  Just 
think!  To  put  a  man  like  that  in  prison— and  say  they'd 
do  such  awful  things  to  him— and  make  him  change  his 
name— and  everything.  It's  perfectly  scandalous.  It's  an 
outrage.  I  shouldn't  think  such  things  would  be  allowed. 
They  wouldn't  be  allowed  in  the  Argentine.  Why,  there 
WM  a  man  out  there  who  killed  his  father-in-law — actually 
H3 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


'I 'I 
il  I 


kiUii  him  —  and  they  didn't  do  anything  to  him  at  alL 
I've  leen  him  lots  of  times.  Aunt  Queenie  has  pointed  him 
out  to  me.  He  used  to  have  the  box  next  but  two  to  ours 
at  the  opera.  And  to  think  they  should  take  a  man  like 
Herbert,  and  worry  him  like  that — it  makes  me  so  indig- 
nant I'd  like  to — " 

Evie  ground  her  teeth,  threw  her  clinched  fists  outtvard, 
and  twitched  hei  skirts  about  the  room  in  the  prettiest  pos- 
sible  passion  oi'  righteous  anger. 

'"But,  darling,"  Miriam  asked,  in  a  puzzled  voice,  "what 
are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?" 

Evie  wheeled  round' haughtily. 

"Do  about  it  ?  What  would  you  expect  me  to  do  about 
it?  I'm  going  to  tell  every  one  he  didn't  do  it — that's 
what  I'm  going  to  do  about  it.  But  of  course  we're  not  to 
■peak  of  it  just  yet — outside  ourselves,  you  know.  He's 
going  to  Buenos  Aires  to  tell  Uncle  Jarrott  he  didn't  do  it 
— and  when  he  comes  back  we're  going  to  make  it  generally 
known.  Oh,  there's  to  be  law  about  it — ^and  everything. 
He  means  to  change  his  name  again  to  what  it  was  before — 
Ford,  the  name  was — and  I  must  say  Miriam,  I  like  that 
a  good  deal  better  than  Strange,  if  you  don't  mind  my  tell- 
ing you.  It  seems  odd  to  have  so  many  Stranges — and  I 
must  say  I  never  could  get  used  to  the  idea  of  having  exactly 
the  same  name  as  yours.  It  was  almost  like  not  being 
married  outside  the  familjr — and  I  should  hate  to  marty  a 
relation.  That  part  of  it  comes  as  a  pleasant  surprise,  do 
you  see  7  I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  Strange,  and  thought 
there  was  no  way  of  getting  rid  of  it,  unless  I — but  I  wasn't 
looking  ahead  to  anything  of  that  kind.  I  hope  I  shall 
never — " 

"So,  darling,  you're  going  to  be  true  to  him  ?*' 
a44 


THE       WILD        OLIVE 

"True  to  him  ?  Of  course  I'm  going  to  be  true  to  him. 
Why  shouldn't  I  be  ?  I'm  going  to  be  more  true  to  him 
now  than  I  was  before.  He's  so  noble  about  it,  too,  I 
wish  you  could  have  seen  the  way  he  broke  it  to  me  Aunt 
Queenie  said  she  never  saw  anything  so  affecting,  not  even 
on  the  stage.  She  was  there,  you  know.  Herbert  felt  he 
couldn't  go  over  it  all  twice,  and  he  thought  I  should  need 
some  one  to  support  me  through  the  shock.  I  didn't — not 
a  bit.  But  I  wish  you  could  have  been  there,  just  to  see 
him." 
"I  can  fancy  it,  dear." 

"Of  course  I  know  now  what  you  ve  been  fidgeting 
about  ever  smce  he  came  to  New  York.  He  says  you 
recognized  him— that  you'd  seen  him  at  Greenport  Oh, 
I  knew  there  was  something.  But  I  must  say,  Miriam,  I 
think  you  might  have  told  me  confidentially,  and  not  let  it 
come  on  me  as  such  a  blow  as  this.  Not  that  I  take  it  as 
a  blow,  though,  of  course,  it  upsets  things  terribly  We 
can't  announce  our  engagement  for  ever  so  long,  and  Aunt 
Queenie  is  rushing  round  in  the  motor  now  to  take  back 
what  she  wrote  to  a  few  people  yesterday.  I  can't  imagine 
what  she'll  tell  them,  because  I  charged  her  on  -r  sacred 
honor  not  to  give  them  the  idea  it  was  broken  ofi ,  although 
I'd  rather  they  thought  it  was  broken  off  than  that  I  hadn't 
been  engaged  at  all." 
"Miss  Jarrott  takes  it  quietly,  then?" 
"Quietlyl  I  wish  you  could  see  her.  She  thinks  there 
never  was  anything  so  romantic.  Why,  she  cried  over  him, 
and  kissed  hmi,  and  said  she'd  always  be  his  friend  if  every 
one  else  in  the  world  were  to  turn  against  him.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  poor  old  dear  is  head  over  heels  in  love  with 
him — do  you  see  ?— in  that  sort  of  old-maid  way— you  know 
245 


THE        fF  I  L   D        OLIVE 


•  5 


III 

n 


the  kind  of  thing  I  mean.  She  thinks  there's  nobody  like 
kim,  and  neither  there  is.  I  shall  miss  him  frightfully 
while  he's  down  there  telling  Uncle  Jarrott.  I  shall  skip 
half  my  invitations  and  go  regularly  into  retreat  till  he  comes 
back.  There's  lots  more  he's  going  to  tell  me  then — all 
about  what  Popsey  Wayne  had  to  do  with  it — and  every 
thing.  I'm  glad  he  doesn't  want  to  do  it  now,  because  my 
bead  is  reeling  as  it  is.  I've  so  many  things  to  think  of — 
and  so  much  responsibility  coming  on  me  all  at  once — and — " 
"  Are  you  going  to  do  anything  about  Billy  ?" 
"Well,  I  can  postpone  that,  at  any  rate.  Thank  good- 
ness, there's  one  silver  lining  to  the  cloud.  I  was  going  to 
give  him  a  pretty  strong  hint  to-night,  seeing  Aunt  Queenie 
has  begun  writing  notes  around,  but  now  I  can  let  him 
simmer  for  a  while  longer.  He  won't  be  able  to  say  I 
haven't  let  him  down  easy,  poor  old  boy.  And,  Miriam 
dear,"  she  continued,  gathering  up  her  various  articles  of 
apparel,  preparatory  to  taking  leave,  "you'll  keep  just  as 
quiet  about  it  as  you  can,  like  a  dear,  won't  you  ?  We  don't 
mean  to  say  a  word  about  it  outside  ourselves  till  Herbert 
comes  back  from  seeing  Uncle  Jarrott.  That's  my  advKe 
— and  it's  all  our  advice — I  mean.  Aunt  Queenie's,  too. 
Then  they're  gomg  to  law — or  something.  I  know  you 
won't  say  anything  about  it,  but  I  thought  I'd  just  put  you 
on  your  guard." 

If  Evie's  way  of  taking  it  was  a  new  revelation  to  Miriam, 
of  her  own  miscalculation,  it  was  also  a  new  incentive  to 
setting  to  work  as  promptly  as  possible  to  repair  what  she 
could  of  the  mischief  she  had  made.  With  Evie's  limiu- 
ttons  she  might  never  know  more  of  the  seriousness  of  her 
situation  than  a  bird  of  the  nature  of  the  battle  raging  near 
246 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

its  nest;  while  if  even  Ford  "went  to  law,"  as  Evie  put  it,  and 
he  came  off  victorious,  there  might  still  be  chances  for  their 
happiness.  To  anything  else  Miriam  was  indifferent,  as  a 
man  in  the  excitement  of  saving  his  children  from  fire  or 
storm  is  dead  to  his  own  sensations.  It  was  with  impetuous, 
almost  frenzied,  eagerness,  therefore,  that  she  went  to  the 
telephone  to  ring  up  Charles  Conquest,  asking  to  be  allowed 
to  see  him  privately  at  his  office  during  the  afternoon. 

In  what  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  do  the  fact  that 
she  was  planning  for  herself  an  unnecessary  measure  of 
sacrifice  was  no  deterrent.  She  was  in  a  mood  in  which 
self-immolation  seemed  the  natural  penalty  of  her  mistakes. 
She  was  not  without  the  knowledge  that  money  cou'd  buy 
the  help  she  purposed  to  obtain  by  direct  intervention;  but 
her  inherited  instincts,  scornful  of  roundabout  methods, 
urged  her  to  pay  the  price  in  something  more  personal  than 
coin.  It  replied  in  some  degree  to  her  self-accusation,  it 
assuaged  the  bitterness  of  her  self-condemnation,  to  know 
that  she  was  to  be  the  active  agent  in  putting  right  that  which 
her  errors  of  judgment  had  put  wrong.  To  her  essentially 
primitive  soul  atonement  by  proxy  was  as  much  out  of  the 
question  as  to  the  devotee  beneath  the  wheels  of  Juggernaut. 
Somewhere  in  the  background  of  her  thought  there  were 
faint  prudential  protests  against  throwing  herself  away; 
but  she  disdained  them,  as  a  Latin  or  a  Teuton  disdains 
the  Anglo-Saxon's  preference  for  a  court  of  law  to  the  pistol 
of  the  duellist.  It  was  something  outside  the  realm  of 
reason.  Reckless  impulses  subdued  by  convent  restraint 
or  civilized  requirements  awoke  with  a  start  all  the  more 
violent  because  of  their  long  sleep,  driving  her  to  do  that 
which  she  knew  other  women  would  have  done  otherwise 
or  not  at  all. 

247 


II  i  II! 


THE        tr  T  L  D        O   L  I  V  B 

She  was  aware,  therefore,  of  limitations  in  the  sacrifice 
•he  was  malting;  she  was  even  aware  that,  in  the  true  sense, 
It  was  no  sacrifice  whatever.  She  was  offering  herself  up 
because  she  chose  tt>-in  a  kind  of  wilfulness— but  a  pas- 
•lonate  wilfulness  which  claimed  that  for  her  at  least  there 
was  no  other  way.  Other  women,  wiser  women,  women 
behmd  whom  there  was  a  long,  moderation-loving  past, 
inight  obey  the  laws  that  prompt  to  the  economy  of  one's  self; 
•he  could  only  follow  those  blind  urgings  which  drove  her 
forefathers  to  fight  when  they  might  have  remained  at 
peace,  or  whipped  them  forth  into  the  wild  places  of  the 
earth  when  they  could, have  stayed  in  quiet  homes.  The 
hard  way  in  preference  to  the  easy  way  was  in  her  blood. 
She  could  no  more  have  resisted  taking  it  now  than  she 
could  have  held  herself  back  eight  years  ago  from  befriend- 
ing Norrie  Ford  against  the  law. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  a  support  to  her  to  remember  that 
Conquest's  manner  on  the  occasions  when  business  brought 
her  to  his  office  was  always  a  little  different  from  that  which 
he  assumed  when  they  met  outside.  He  was  much  more 
the  professional  man  with  his  client,  a  little  the  friend,  but 
not  at  all  the  lover— if  he  was  a  lover  anywhere.  Having 
welcomed  her  now  with  just  the  right  shade  of  cordiality, 
he  made  her  sit  at  a  iittle  distance  from  his  desk,  while  he 
himself  returned  to  the  revolving-chair  at  which  he  had 
been  writing  when  she  entered.  After  the  preliminaiy 
greetings,  he  put  on,  unconsciously,  the  questioning  air  a 
business  man  takes  at  the  beginning  of  an  interview  which 
he  has  been  invited  to  accord. 
"I  came — about  Evie." 

Now  that  she  was  there  it  was  less  easy  to  begin  than 
•he  had  expected. 

248 


,1  i  „ii 


THE        fF  I  L   D        OLIVE 


"Quite  so.  I  knew  there  was  a  hitch.  I've  just  had  a 
mysterious  note  from  Queenie  Jarrott  which  I  haven't  been 
able  to  make  out.     Can't  they  hit  it  off?" 

"It's  a  good  deal  more  serious  than  that.  Mr.  Strange 
came  to  see  Mr.  Wayne  and  me  last  night.  I  may  as  well 
tell  you  as  simply  as  I  can.  His  name  isn't  Strange 
at  all." 

"Hoi   hoi    What's  up?" 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  name  of — Norrie  Ford  ?" 

"Good  Lord,  yes  I  I  can't  quite  remember —  Let's  see. 
Norrie  Ford  ?  I  know  the  name  as  well  as  I  know  my  own. 
Wasn't  that  the  case — ^why,  yes,  it  must  have  been — wasn't 
that  the  case  Wayne  was  mixed  up  in  six  or  eight  yean 
ago?" 

"Yes,  it  was." 

"The  fellow  gave  'em  all  the  slip,  didn't  he  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"Hadn't  he  been  commuted  to  a  life  sentence — r" 

"Mr.  Wayne  hoped  it  would  be  done,  but  it  hadn't  been 
done  yet.     He  was  still  under  sentence  of— death." 

"Yes,  yes,  yes.  It  comes  back  to  me.  We  thought 
Wayne  hadn't  displayed  much  energy  or  ability  of  fore- 
sight— or  something.  I  remember  there  was  talk  about 
it,  and  in  the  newspapers  there  was  even  a  cock-and-bull 
story  that  Wayne  had  connived  at  his  escape.  Well,  what 
has  that  got  to  do  with  Evie  ?" 

"  It  has  everything  to  do  with  her." 

Conquest's  little  gray-green  eyes  blinked  as  if  against 
the  blaze  of  their  own  light,  while  his  features  sharpened 
to  their  utmost  incisiveness. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say — ?" 

"I  do." 

249 


THE        fr  I  L  D        OLIVE 


0  u! 


w 

III 

1 

m 

■ 

:  ^y 

■ 

If 

L 

"Well,  upon — my — I"  The  exclamation  trailed  off  into 
a  silent  etiurt  to  take  in  this  extraordinary  piece  of  intel- 
ligence. "  Do  you  mean  to  say  the  scamp  had  the  cheek —  ? 
Oh  no,  it  isn't  possible.     G)me  nowl" 

"It  was  exactly  as  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  but  I  don't  think 
you  should  call  him  a  scamp.  You  see,  he's  engaged  to 
Evie— " 

"He's  not  engaged  to  her  now?" 

"He  is.     She  means  to  be  true  to  him.     So  do  we  all." 

Two  little  scarlet  spots  burned  in  her  cheeks,  but  it  was 
not  more  in  the  way  of  emotion  than  a  warm  partisanship 
on  Evie's  account  demanded. 

"Well,  I'm  blowedl"  He  swung  one  leg  acroa  the 
other,  making  his  chair  describe  a  semicircle. 

"Perhaps  you  won't  be  so  much — blowed,  when  yo* 
hear  all  I  have  to  tell  you." 

"Go  ahead;  I'm  more  interested  than  if  it  was  a  dioM 
noTel." 

As  lucidly  as  she  could  she  gave  him  the  outline  of  Ford's 
tomance,  dwelling  as  he  had  done  in  relating  it  to  her,  leM 
on  its  incidents  than  on  its  mental  and  moral  effect  upon 
himself.  She  suppressed  the  narrative  of  the  weeks  speitt 
in  the  cabin  and  based  her  report  entirely  on  information 
received  from  Ford.  For  testimony  as  to  his  life  and  char- 
acter in  the  Argentine  she  had  the  evidence  of  Miss  Jarrott, 
while  on  the  subject  of  his  business  abilities — no  small 
point  with  a  New  York  business  man,  as  she  was  astute 
enough  to  see — there  could  be  no  better  authority  than 
Conquest  himself,  who,  as  Stephens  and  Jarrott's  American 
legal  adviser,  had  had  ample  opportunity  of  judging.  She 
was  gratified  to  note  that  as  her  story  progressed  it  called 
forth  sympathetic  looks,  and  an  occasional  appreciatm 
250 


THE 


WILD        O   L   I   y  B 


esdamation,  while  now  and  then  he  (lapped  his  thigh  af 
a  mark  of  the  kind  of  amused  astonishment  that  verges  on 
approbation. 

"So  we  couldn't  desert  him  now,  after  she's  been  so  bravc^ 
could  we  V  she  pleaded,  with  some  amount  of  confidence; 
"and  especially  when  he's  engaged  to  Evie." 

"  I  suppose  we  can't  desert  him,  if  he's  sane." 

"OS,  he's  sane." 

"  Then  why  the  deuce,  when  he  was  so  well  out  of  harm's 
way,  didn't  he  stay  there  ?" 

"  Because  of  his  love  for  Evie,  don't  you  see  ?"  She  had 
to  explain  Ford's  moral  development  and  psychological 
state  all  over  again,  until  he  could  see  it  with  some  measure 
of  comprehension. 

"It  certainly  is  the  queerest  stoiy  I  ever  heard,"  he 
declared,  in  enjoyment  of  its  dramatic  elements,  "and 
we're  all  in  it,  aren't  we  ?    It's  like  seeing  yourself  in  a  play." 

"I  thought  you  would  look  at  it  in  that  way.  As  soon  as 
I  began  wondering  v'hat  we  could  do — this  morning — I  saw 
that,  after  Evie,  you  were  the  person  most  concerned." 

"Who?  I?  Why  am  I  concerned?  I've  got  nothing 
to  do  with  it!" 

"No,  of  course  not,  except  as  Stephens  and  Jarrott's 
lawyer.     When  their  representative  in  New  York — " 

"Oh,  but  my  dear  girl,  my  duties  don't  involve  me  in 
anything  of  this  kind.  I'm  the  legal  ad  «er  to  the  firm, 
but  I've  nothing  to  do  with  the  private  affairs  of  their 
employees." 

"Mr.  Jarrott  is  very  fond  of  Mr.  Strange — " 

"Perhaps  this  will  cool  his  affection." 

"I  don't  think  it  will  as  long  as  Evie  insists  on  marrying 
him.     I'm  sure  they  mean  to  stand  by  him." 
251 


THE        fr  I  L   D 


O   L   I  F  E 


"They  won't  be  able  to  nand  by  him  long,  if  the  law  givci 
him — ^what  it  meant  to  give  him  before." 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  think  there's  any  danger  of  that  ?" 

"I  don't  know  about  it,"  he  taid,  ihaking  his  head, 
ominously.  "The  fact  that  he  comes  back  and  gives  him- 
•elf  up  isn't  an  argument  in  favor  of  his  innocence.  There's 
generally  remorse  behind  that  dodge." 

"Then  isn't  that  all  the  more  reason  why  we  should  help 
him  f" 

"Help  him?    Howr 

"  By  trying  to  win  his  case  for  him." 

He  looked  at  her  with  eyes  twinkling  while  his  fingers 
concealed  the  smile  behind  his  colorless  mustache. 

"And  how  would  you  propose  to  set  about  that .'" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  suppose  you  do.  There  must  be 
ways.  He's  leaving  as  soon  as  he  can  for  South  America. 
He  thinks  it  may  be  months  before  he  gets  back.  I  thought 
that — perhaps — in  the  mean  time — while  he  won't  be  able 
to  do  anything  for  himself— you  might  see — " 

"Yes,  yes;  go  on,"  he  said,  as  she  hesitated. 

"You  might  see  if  there  is  any  evidence  that  could  be 
found — that  wasn't  found  before — isn't  that  the  way  they 
do  it  ?— and  have  it  ready— for  him  when  he  came  back." 

"For  a  wedding  present." 

"It  would  be  a  wedding  present — to  all  of  us.  It  would 
be  for  Evie's  sake.  You  know  how  I  love  her.  She's  the 
dearest  thing  to  me  in  the  world.  If  I  could  only  secure 
her  happiness  like  that — " 

"You  mean,  if  I  could  secure  it." 

"You'd  be  doing  it  actively,  but  I  should  want  to  co- 
operate." 

"In  what  way?" 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

She  tat  very  Mill.  She  wai  «ure  he  understood  her  by 
the  tudden  rigidity  of  hii  po»e,  while  hii  eyei  itopped 
twinkling,  and  his  fingers  ceased  to  travel  along  the  line 
of  his  mustache.  H  i  eyes  fell  before  the  scrutiny  in  his, 
but  she  lifted  ther.  .1,  (br  or™  of  her  quick,  wild  glanced 
"In  any  way  '.    u  : 

She  tried  to  1  .  1..  i:»  an-c  'istinct,  matter  of  fact, 
not  too  signim  .'...  but  sh.  la  'cJ.  ,1  spite  of  herself,  her 
words  convf.ii  .,il  >li,i  ,n.  ,  ,;,  4  The  brief  pause  that 
followed  w.-  nor  !.■  ,  v' I'lUc.t.  .lo-  did  it  break  the  spell 
when  Conqueit  .;a' >■  1  .,h„it  little  iaugh  that  might  have 
been  nervous  aiiJ.  chanyng  u.  j.osture,  leaned  forward  on 
his  desk  and  scril  !  ■■  '  m  the  blotting-pad.  While  he 
would  never  have  admitted  it,  it  was  a  relief  to  him,  too, 
not  to  be  obliged  to  face  her. 

He  was  not  shocked,  neither  was  he  quite  surprised.  He 
was  accustomed  to  the  thought  that  a  woman's  love  was  a 
thing  to  purchase.  One  man  bought  it  from  her  father 
for  a  couple  of  oxen,  another  from  herself  for  an  establish- 
ment  and  a  diamond  tiara.  It  was  the  same  principle  in 
both  cases.  He  had  never  considered  Miriam  Strange  ai 
being  without  a  price;  his  difficulty  had  been  in  knowing 
what  it  was.  The  establishment  and  the  diamond  tiara 
having  proved  as  indifferent  to  her  as  the  yoke  of  oxen,  he 
was  thrown  back  upon  the  alternative  of  heroic  deeds.  He 
had  more  than  once  suspected  that  these  might  win  her  if 
they  had  only  been  in  his  line.  There  being  few  oppor- 
tunities for  that  kind  of  endeavor  as  the  head  of  a  large 
and  lucrative  legal  practice,  the  suggestion  only  left  him 
cynical.  In  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  had  long  wished  to 
dazzle,  by  some  act  of  prowess,  the  eyes  that  saw  him  only 
as  a  respectable  man  of  middle  age,  but  the  desire  had 
"  253 


ii: 


II  I- pi 

i 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

merely  mocked  him  with  the  kind  of  derision  which  im- 
potence gets  from  3'outh.  It  seemed  now  a  stroke  of  luck 
which  almost  merited  being  termed  an  act  of  Providence 
that  there  should  have  come  a  call  for  exactly  his  variety  of 
"derringdrj"  from  the  very  quarter  in  which  he  could 
make  it  tell. 

"We've  never  gone  in  for  any  criminal  business  here," 
he  ssid,  after  long  reflection,  while  he  continued  to  scribble 
linilessly,  "but,  of  course,  we're  in  touch  with  the  people 
who  take  it  up." 

"I  thought  you  might  be." 

"But  it's  only  £iir  to  tdl  you  that  if  your  motive  is  to 
•ave  time  for  our  friend  in  question — " 
"That  is  my  motive — ^the  only  one." 
"Then  you  could  get  in  touch  with  them,  too." 
"But  I  don't  want  to." 

"Srill  I  think  jou  should  consider  it.    The  best  legal 
advice  in  the  world  can  be — bought — for  money." 
"I  know  that." 

Lifting  his  eyes  in  a  sharp  look,  he  saw  her  head  tilted 
back  with  her  own  special  air  of  deliberate  temerity. 

"Oh,  very  well,  then,"  he  said,  quietly,  resuming  hi* 
scribbling  again.  After  this  warning  he  felt  jusrified  in 
taking  her  at  her  word. 

With  that  as  a  beginning  she  know  she  had  gained  her 
first  great  point.  In  answer  to  his  questions  she  told  the 
story  over  again,  displaying,  as  he  remembered  afterward — 
but  long  afterward — a  surprising  familiarity  with  its  de- 
tails. She  made  suggestions  which  he  noted  as  marked 
by  some  acumen,  and  laid  stress  on  the  value  of  the  aid 
they  might  expect  privately  from  Philip  Wayne.  The 
beauty  and  eagerness  in  her  face  fired  the  almost  atrophied 


^w^m^i'm^mt: 


THE        WILD 


OLIVE 


enthusiasm  in  his  own  heart,  while  he  could  not  but  mc 
that  this  entirely  altruistic  interest  hid  brought  them  in 
half  an  hour  nearer  together  than  they  had  ever  been 
before.  It  was  what  they  had  never  had  till  now— a  bond 
in  common.  In  spite  of  the  persistency  of  his  efforts  and 
his  assertions,  he  had  never  hitherto  got  nearer  her  than  a 
statue  on  a  pedestal  gets  to  its  neighbor  in  a  similar  situa- 
tion, but  now  at  last  they  were  down  on  the  same  earth 
together.  This  was  more  than  reason  enough  for  his  tak- 
ing up  the  cause  of  Norrie  Ford,  consecrating  to  it  all  his 
resources,  mental  and  material,  and  winning  it. 

In  the  ccarse  of  an  hour  or  two  their  understanding  was 
complete,  but  he  did  not  refer  again  to  the  conditions  of 
their  tacit  compact.  It  was  she  who  fek  that  sufficient  had 
not  been  said— that  the  sincerity  with  which  she  subscribed 
to  it  had  not  been  duly  emphasized.  She  was  at  the  door 
on  the  point  of  going  away  when  she  braced  herself  io  look 
at  him  and  say: 

"You  can't  realize  what  all  this  means  to  me.  If  we 
succeed— that  is,  if  you  succeed— I  hardly  dare  to  tell  you 
of  the  extent  to  which  I  shall  be  grateful." 

He  felt  already  some  of  the  hero's  magnanimity  as  to 
claiming  his  reward. 

"You  needn't  think  about  that,"  he  smiled.  "I  sha'n't. 
If  by  making  Evie  happy  I  can  serve  you,  I  shall  not  ask 
for  gratitude." 

She  looked  down  at  her  muff  and  smoothed  its  fur,  then 
glanced  up  swiftly.     "No;   but  I  shall  want  to  give  it." 

With  that  she  was  gone— lighter  of  heart  than  a  few 
hours  ago  it  had  seemed  to  her  possible  ever  to  be  again. 
Her  joy  was  the  joy  of  the  captain  who  feels  that  he  hai 
saved  his  ship,  though  his  own  wound  is  fat,  ^ 
255 


-II.  I 


>  H 


11 


..:...vW.-.J 


Part  IV 
CON  QJJ  EST 


^vi^ii.\/t- 


» 


XX 


.40NG  the  three  or  four  qualities  Conqueit 
I  most  approved  of  in  himself,  not  the  least 
1  was  a  certain  capacity  for  the  patient  acquisi- 
I  tion  of  the  worid's  more  enviable  properties. 
]  He  had  the  gift  of  knowing  what  he  ifanted, 
recognizing  it  when  he  saw  it,  and  waiting  for  it  till  it  came 
within  his  reach.  From  his  youth  upward  he  had  been  a 
connoisseur  of  quality  rather  than  a  lover  of  abundance, 
while  he  owned  to  a  talent  for  leeing  the  value  of  thing? 
which  other  people  overlooked,  and  throwing  them  into 
relief  when  the  objects  became  his.  As  far  back  as  the  time 
when  the  modest  paternal  heritage  had  been  divided  be- 
tween his  brothers  and  sisters  and  himself,  he  had  been 
astute  enough  to  leave  the  bulk  of  it  to  them,  contenting 
himself  with  one  or  two  bits  of  ancestral  furniture  and  a 
few  old  books,  which  were  now  known  by  all  to  have  been 
the  only  things  worth  having.  Throughout  his  life  he  had 
followed  this  principle  of  acquiring  unobtrusively  but 
getting  exactly  what  he  wanted.  It  was  so  that  he  bought 
his  first  horse,  so  that  he  bought  his  first  motor,  so  that  he 
purchased  the  land  where  he  afterward  built  his  house — in 
a  distant,  desolate  stretch  of  Fifth  Avenue  which  his  ac- 
quaintances told  him  wo-ild  be  hopelessly  out  of  reach,  but 
where,  not  many  years  after,  most  of  them  were  too  late  «• 
}oin  him. 


a 


m. 


m 
at 


THE        tV  I  L   D        OLIVE 

In  buSding  his  house,  too,  he  txmk  his  time,  allowing  his 
friends  to  make  their  experiments  around  him,  while  he 
studied  the  great  art  of  "how  not  to  do  it."  One  of  his 
neighbors  erected  a  Flemish  chateau,  another  a  Florentine 
palazzo,  and  a  third  a  Francois  Premier  hotel,  but  his 
plot  of  ground  remained  an  unkempt  tangle  of  mullein  and 
blue  succory.  In  the  end  he  put  up  a  sober,  handsome 
development  on  a  style  which  the  humbler  passers-by  often 
called,  with  approval,  "good,  plain  Americ'in,"  but  whose 
point  of  departure  was  Georgian.  He  had  the  instinct  for 
that  which  springs  out  of  the  soil.  For  this  reason  he  did 
not  shrink  from  an  Early  Victorian  note — the  first  note  of 
the  modem,  prosperous  New  York — in  decoration ;  and  the 
same  taste  impelled  him  toward  the  American  in  art.  Whfle 
Neighbor  Smith  displayed  his  Gainsboroughs,  and  Neighbor 
Jones  his  Rousseaus  or  Daubignys,  Conquest  quietly  picked 
up  a  thing  here  and  there — always  under  excellent  '.dvice — 
which  no  picture-dealer  had  been  able  to  dispose  of,  because 
It  came  from  some  studio  in  Twenty-third  Street.  Hung 
on  his  walls,  it  produced  that  much-sought-for  effect  of 
"having  been  always  there."  He  was  not  a  Chauvinist, 
nor  had  he  any  sympathy  with  the  intolerantly  patriotic.  He 
was  merely  a  lover  of  the  indigenous 

In  much  the  same  way  he  had  sought  for — and  waited 
for — a  wife.  He  had  been  rashly  put  down  as  "not  a 
jmarrying  man,"  when  he  was  only  taking  his  time.  He 
had  seen  plainly  of  excellent  possibilities — fine  women, 
handsome  women,  clever  women,  good  women — any  of 
whom  presumably  he  could  have  had  for  the  asking;  but 
none  was,  in  his  own  phraseology,  "just  the  right  thing." 
He  wanted  something  unusual,  and  yet  not  exotic — some- 
thing obvious,  which  no  one  else  had  observed — something 
260 


THE        WILD        O  L   I  F  E 

cultivated,  and  yet  native — something  as  exquisite  as  any 
hothouse  orchid,  but  with  the  keen,  fresh  scent  of  the 
American  woods  and  waters  on  its  bloom.  It  was  not  a 
thing  to  be  picked  up  every  day,  and  so  he  kept  on  the 
lookout  for  it,  and  waited  Even  when  he  found  it,  he 
was  not  certain,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  tliat  it  would 
prove  exactly  what  he  had  in  mind  So  he  waited  longer. 
He  watched  the  effect  of  time  and  experience  upon  it,  until 
he  was  quite  sure  He  knew  the  risk  he  was  running  that 
some  one  else  might  snatch  it  up;  but  his  principle  had 
always  been  to  let  everything,  no  matter  how  coveted,  go, 
rather  than  buy  in  haste. 

Lest  such  an  attitude  toward  5.1iriam  Strange  should  seem 
cold-blooded,  it  should  be  said  in  his  defence  that  he  con- 
sidered the  agi;regate  of  his  sentiments  to  be — love.  She 
was  to  be  more  than  'something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little 
dearer  than  his  horse,"  more  than  the  living,  responsive 
soul  among  his  chattels.  There  was  that  in  her  which 
appealed  to  his  desire,  and  to  something  more  deeply  seated 
in  him  still.  After  satisfying  ear,  eye,  and  intelligence, 
there  was  in  her  nature  a  whole  undiscovered  region,  un- 
divined,  undefined,  wakening  the  imagination,  and  stirring 
the  speculative  faculties,  like  the  subconscious  elements  in 
personality.  In  her  wild,  non-Aryan  glances  he  saw  the 
flame  of  eyes  that  flashed  on  him  out  of  a  past  unknown  to 
history;  in  the  liquid  cadences  of  her  voice  he  haard  the 
echo  of  the  speech  that  had  sounded  in  the  land  before 
Plymouth  was  a  stockade  or  Manhattan  was  a  farm;  in 
her  presence  he  found  a  claim  that  antedated  everything 
sprung  of  Hudson,  Cabot,  or  Columbus.  The  slender  thread 
that  attached  her  to  the  ages  of  nomadic  mystery  made  her 
for  him  the  indigenous  spirit,  reborn  in  a  woman  of  the  world. 
261 


THE       fF  I  L  D 


OLIVE 


Knowing  himself  too  old  to  be  dominated  by  i  pasiion, 
*nd  too  experienced  to  be  snared  by  wiles,  he  estimated  hii 
feelings  as  being  those  of  love,  as  he  understood  the  word. 
He  conceded  the  fact  that  love,  like  evciy  other  desire,  must 
"-rk  to  win,  and  proceeded  to  set  about  his  task  according 
JO  his  usual  methods  of  persistent,  unobtrusive  siege.  It 
was  long  before  Miriam  became  aware  of  what  he  wa« 
doing,  and  her  surprise  as  she  drew  back  was  not  quite  so 
great  as  his  to  see  her  do  it.  He  was  so  accustomed  to  suc- 
cess— after  taking  the  trouble  to  insure  it — that  he  was 
astonished,  and  a  little  angry,  to  find  his  usual  tactics  fail. 
He  did  not  believe  that  she  was  beyond  his  grasp;  he  per- 
ceived only  that  he  had  taken  the  wrong  way  to  get  her. 
That  there  was  a  right  way  there  could  be  no  question;  and 
he  knew  that  by  patient,  unremitting  search  he  should  find  it. 
He  had,  therefore,  several  sources  of  satisfaction  in  es- 
pousing the  cause  of  Norrie  Ford.  The  amplitude  of  his 
legal  knowledge  would  be  to  him  as  gay  feathers  to  the 
cock;  while  the  contemplation  of  the  prize  added  to  his 
self-approval  in  never  doubting  that  it  coa!d  be  won. 

It  was  early  March  when  Ford  sailed  away,  leaving  his 
afPairs  in  Conquest's  charge,  at  the  latter's  own  request. 
He  in  his  turn  placed  them  in  the  hands  of  Kilcup  and 
Warren,  who  made  a  specialty  of  thst  branch  of  the  law. 
The  reward  was  immediate,  in  that  frequent  talks  with 
Miriam  became  a  matter  of  course. 

His  trained  mind  was  prompt  to  seize  the  fact  that  these 
Interviews  took  place  on  a  basis  different  from  that  of  their 
meetings  in  the  past.  Where  he  had  been  seeking  to  gain 
an  end  he  was  now  on  probation.  He  had  been  told — or 
practically  told — that  what  he  had  been  asking  would  be 
262 


THE        WILD        0   L    I   F  E 

granted,  as  soon  as  certain  conditions  were  fulfilled.  It 
became  to  him.  therefore,  a  matter  of  honor,  in  some 
degree  one  of  professional  etiquette,  to  fulfil  the  condition* 
before  referring  to  the  reward.  Instead  of  a  suitor  pressing 
his  suit,  he  became  the  man  of  business  recounting  the 
points  scored,  or  still  to  be  scored,  in  a  common  enterprise. 
In  keeping  her  informed  of  each  new  step  that  Kilcup  and 
Warren  were  taking,  he  maintained  an  attitude  of  distant 
respect,  of  which  she  could  have  nothing  to  complain. 

Expecting  an  equal  reserve  on  her  part,  it  was  with  some 
surprise  that  he  saw  her  assume  the  initiative  in  cordiality. 
He  called  it  cordiality,  because  he  dared  not  make  it  a 
stronger  word.  Her  manner  went  back  to  the  spontaneous 
friendliness  that  had  marked  their  intercourse  before  she 
began  to  see  what  he  was  aiming  at,  while  into  it  she  threw 
an  infusion  of  something  that  had  not  hitherto  been  there. 
When  he  came  with  the  information  that  a  fresh  bit  of 
evidence  had  been  discovered,  or  a  new  light  thrown  on  an 
old  one,  she  listened  with  interest— just  the  right  kind  of 
interest — and  made  pretexts  to  detain  him,  sometimes  with 
Wayne  as  a  third,  sometimes  without,  for  the  pleasure  of 
his  own  company.  Now  and  then,  as  spring  came  on,  they 
would  all  three,  at  her  suggestion,  cross  the  street,  and  stroll 
in  the  park  together.  Leaving  Wayne  on  some  convenient 
seat,  they  would  prolong  their  own  walk,  talking  with  the 
unguarded  confidence  of  mutual  trust.  It  was  she  who 
furnished  the  topics— books,  music,  politics,  people,  any- 
thing that  chanced  to  be  uppermost.  When  he  decided  to 
purchase  an  automobile  a  whole  new  world  of  consultation 
was  opened  up.  They  visited  establishments  together,  an4 
drove  with  Wayne  mto  the  country  to  test  machines.  Re- 
(uming,  Conquest  would  dine  informally,  in  moining  dretf, 
263 


ill 


THE        ly  I  L   D        OLIVE 

with  .hem;  or  else,  from  time  .o  time  he  would  invite  them 
,o  a  restaurant.     By-and-by  he  took  to  organv.mg  l.t.le  dm 
ners  at  his  own  house,  ostensibly  to  cheer  up  NVayne,  but 
really  to  see  Miriam  at  his  table. 

In  all  this  there  w.->s  nothing  remarkuMe,  as  between  old 
friends,  except  the  contrast  with  her  l.c.np.  7"^.'''"! 
during  the  past  year.  He  had  expected  ,l,ut  when  Norr.e 
Ford  went  finally  free  she  would  fulfi  her  contract,  and 
fulfil  it  welli  but  he  had  not  expected  th,s  nistalment  of 
graciousness  in  advance.  It  set  him  to  rondcru.g,  .0  look- 
fng  in  the  mirror,  to  refining  on  that  careful  drcss.ng  w h  <^ 
he  had  already  made  an  art.  After  all,  a  man  m  .he  fift.es 
was  young  as  long  as  he  looked  young,  and  accordmg  as 
one  took  the  point  of  view. 

Except  when  Ford's  affairs  came  d-tly  under  d- 
cussion.  he  occupied,  seemingly,  a  secondary  place  m  .h«r 
thoughts.  Miriam  rarely  spoke  of  h>m  at  all,  and  .f  Con- 
quest brought  up  his  name  more  frequently  u  was  because 
L  professional  interest  in  the  numerous  "mce  po.nts  of 
S,e  ease  .as  becoming  keen.  He  talked  tbem  over  w  th 
her  partly  because  of  his  pleasure  m  the  mtell.gcnce  with 
t^ich  shJgrasped  them,  and  partly  because  the.r  ■nt.macy 
deepened  in  proportion  as  the  hope  strengthened  that 
Ford's  innocence  would  be  proved.  America 

It  was  June  before  Miriam  heard  from  South  Amer.ca^ 
Two  or  thee  letters  to  Evie  had  already  come  guardedly 
written  telling  little  more  than  the  mc.den.s  of  Fords 
Tyage  and  Arrival.  It  was  .0  Miriam  he  wrote  what 
he  actually  had  at  heart. 

"The  great  moment  has  come  and  gone,"  she  read  to 
Conquest     "I  have  seen  Mr.  Jarrott,  and  made  a  clean 
264 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

breast   of  everything.     It  wa»   harder  than   I   expected, 
though  I  expected  it  would  be  pretty  hard.     I  think  I  felt 
terrier  for  him  than  for  myself,  which  is  saying  a  good 
deal.     He  not  only  takes  it  to  heart,  but  feels  it  as  a  cut 
to  his  pride.     I  can  see  that  that  thought  is  uppermost. 
What  he   f.ds  is  not  so  much  the  fact  that  /  deceived  him 
as  that  I  deceived  him.     I  can  understand  !  ,  too.     In  a 
country  where  tlitic  is  such  a  lot  of  this  sort  of  thing,  he 
has  never  been  touched  by  it  before.     It  has  been  a  kind  of 
boast  that   his   men  were  always  the  genuine  article.     If 
one  of  them  is  called  Smith,  it  is  because  he  is  a  Smith,  and 
not  a  Vere  de  Vere  in  hiding.     But  that  isn't  all.     He  took 
me  into  his  tamily-into  his  very  heart.     He  showed  that, 
when  I  told  him.     He  tried  not  to,  but  he  couldn't  help 
it.     I  tell  you  it  hurt— ;"«•.     I  won't  try  to  write  about  it. 
I'll  tell  you  everything  face  to  face,  when  I  get  up  to  the 
mark,  if  I  ever  do.     Apparently  my  letters  hadn't  prepared 
him  for  the  thing  at  all.     He  thought  it  was  to  be  something 
to  do  with  Evie,  though  he  might  have  known  I  wouldn't 
have  chucked  up  everything  for  that.    The  worst  of  it  is, 
he's  no  good  at  seeing  things  all  round.     He  can't  take  my 
point  of  view  a  bit.     It  is  impossible  to  explain  the  fix  I 
was  put  in,  because  he  can  see  nothing  but  the  one  fact 
that  I  pulled  the  wool  over  his  eyes— Ai>  eyes,  that  had 
never  suffered   sacrilege    before.     I   sympathize  with   him 
in  that,  and  yet  I  think  he  might  try  to  see  that  there's 
something  to  be  said  on   my  side.     He  doesn't,  and   he 
never  will— which  only  hurts  me  the  more. 

"As  for  Evie,  he  wouldn't  let  me  mention  her  name,  ^  I 
A\Ar,'t  Insist,  because  it  was  too  oainful — I  mean,  too  paii>- 


ful  to  see 


how  he  took  it.     He  said,  in  about  ten  words,  that 


Evie  had  not  been  any  more  engaged  than  if  she  had  given 
265 


MICROCOPY   RESOLUTION    TEST   CHART 

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•  .;      i 


THE        WILD 


OLIVE 


her  word  to  a  man  of  air,  and  that  there  was  no  reason  why 
sh"!  should  be  spoken  of.  We  left  it  there.  I  couldn't  deny 
that,  and  it  was  no  use  saying  any  more.  The  only  reply  to 
him  must  be  given  by  Evie  herself.  He  is  writing  to  her, 
and  so  am  I.  I  wish  you  would  help  her  to  see  that  she 
must  consider  herself  quite  free,  and  that  she  isn't  to  under- 
take what  she  may  not  have  the  strength  to  carry  out.  I 
realize  more  and  more  that  I  was  asking  her  to  do  the 
impossible." 


i    ■! 


It  was  an  hour  or  two  after  reading  this,  when  Conquest 
had  gone  away,  that  Evie  herself — as  dainty  as  spring,  in 
flowered  muslin  and  a  Leghorn  hat  crowned  with  a  wreath 
of  roses — came  fluttering  in. 

"I've  had  the  queerest  letter  from  Uncle  Jarrott,"  she 
began,  breathlessly.  "The  poor  old  dear — well,  something 
must  be  the  matter  with  him.  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me 
imagine  what  Herbert  can  have  told  him,  but  he  doesn't 
understand  a  bit." 

Miriam  locked  her  own  letter  in  her  desk,  saying  as  she 
did  so: 

"How  does  he  show  it? — that  he  doesn't  understand." 

"Why,  he  simply  talks  wild — that's  how  he  shows  it. 
He  says  I  am  not  to  consider  myself  engaged  to  Herbert — 
that  I  was  never  engaged  to  him  at  all.  I  wonder  what  he 
calls  it,  if  it  isn't  engaged,  when  I  have  a  ring — and  ever)- 
thing." 

"It  is  rather  mystifying."  Miriam  tried  to  smile.  "I 
suppose  he  means  that  having  given  your  word  to  Herbert 
Strange,  you're  not  to  consider  yourself  bound  to  Norrie 
Ford,  unless  you  want  to." 

"Pff!  I  don't  care  anything  about  that.  I  never  liked 
266 


E 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

the  name  of  Herbert— oi  Strange,  either.  I  told  you  that 
before.  All  the  same,  I  wish  Uncle  Jarrott  would  have  a 
little  sense." 

"Suppose— I  mean,  just  suppose,  dear— he  felt  it  his 
duty  to  forbid  your  engagement  altogether.  What  would 
you  do  then  ?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  very  nice  of  him,  I  must  say.    He  wa» 
as  pleased  as  Punch  over  it  when  I  was  down  (here.     If 
he's  so  capricious,  I  don't  see  how  he  can  blame  me." 
"Blame  you,  for  what,  dear?" 
"For  staying  engaged— if  it's  all  right." 
"But  if  he  thought  it  wasn't  all  right  ?" 
"You  do,  don't  you  ?" 

Evie,  who  had  been  prancing  about  the  room,  turned 
sharply  on  Miriam,  who  was  still  at  her  desk. 
"That  isn't  the  question — " 

"No,  but  it's  a  question.  I  presume  you  don't  mind 
my  asking  it  ?" 

"You  may  ask  me  anything,  darling— of  course.  But 
this  is  your  uncle  Jarrott's  affair,  and  yours.  It  wouldn't 
do  for  me — " 

"Oh,  that's  so  like  you  Miriam.     You'd  exasperate  a 
saint— the  way  you  won't  give  your  opinion  when  you've 
got  one.     I  wish  I  could  ask  Billy.    He'd  know.     But  of 
course  I  couldn't,  when  he  thinks   I'm  still  engaged  to 
him." 
"What  do  you  want  to  ask  him,  Evie,  dear?" 
"Well,  he's  a  lawyer.     He  could  tell  me  all  about  what 
it's  all  about.     I'm  sure  /  don't  know.     I  didn't  think  it 
was  anything— and  yet  here's  Uncle  Jarrott  writing  as  if 
it  was  something  awful.     He's  written  to  Aunt  Queenie, 
Kio.    Of  course  I  must  stand  by  Herbert,  whatever  happent 
267 


THE        WILD        0    L   I  F  E 


t:;. 


— if  it  isn't  very  bad;  but  you  can  see  yourself  that  I  don't 
want  to  be  mixed  up  in  a — a — in  a  scandal." 

"It  would  hardly  be  a  scandal,  dear;  but  there  would  be 
lome — some  publicity  about  it." 

"I  don't  mind  publicity.  I'm  used  to  that,  with  my 
name  in  the  paper  every  other  day.  It  was  in  this  morn- 
ing. Did  you  see  it.' — the  Gresley's  dance-  Only  I  do 
wish  they  would  call  me  Evelyn,  and  not  "vie.  It  sounds 
so  familiar." 

"I'm  afraif'  they'd  put  more  in  about  you  than  just 
that." 

"Would  they?  What?"  Her  eyes  danced  already,  in 
anticipation. 

"I  can't  tell  you  exactly  what;  but  it  would  be  things 
you  wouldn't  like." 

Evie  twitched  about  the  room,  making  little  click'  .g 
sounds  with  her  lips,  as  signs  of  meditation. 

"Well,  I  mean  to  be  true  to  him — a  while  longer,"  she 
said,  at  last,  as  if  coming  to  a  conclusion.  "I'm  not  going 
to  let  Uncle  Jarrott  think  I'm  just  a  puppet  to  be  jerked 
on  a  string  The  ideal  When  he  was  as  pleased  as  Punch 
about  it  himself.  And  Aunt  Helen  said  she'd  give  me  my 
trousseau.  I  suppose  1  sha'n't  get  that  now.  But  there's 
the  money  you  offered  me  for  the  pearl  neckl.ice.  Only  I'd 
much  rather  have  the  pearl —  We!!,  I'll  be  true  to  him, 
do  you  see  ?  We're  leaving  for  Newport  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. They  say  there  hasn't  been  such  a  brilliant  sum- 
mer for  a  long  time  as  they  expect  this  year.  Thank  good- 
ness, there's  something  to  take  my  mind  off  all  this  care 
and  worry  and  responsiblity,  otherwise  I  think  I  should 
pass  away.  But  I  shall  show  Uncle  Jarrott  that  he  can't 
do  just  as  he  likes  with  me,  anyhow." 
268 


;    ij 


THE        IV  I  L   D 


OLIVE 


Evie  and  Miss  Jarrott  went  to  Newport,  and  it  was  the 
beginning  r,f  July  before  Miriam  heard  from  Ford  again. 
Once  more  she  read  to  Conquest  such  portions  of  the  letter 
as  she  thought  he  would  find  of  interest. 

"It  is  all  over  now,"  Ford  wrote,  "between  Stephens  and 
Jarrott  and  me.     I'm  out  of  the  concern  for  good.     It  was 
something  of  a  wrench,  and  I'm  gl.id  it  is  p.ist.     I  didn't  see 
the  old  man  ag.iin.     I  wanted  to  thank  ',im  and  say  good- 
bye  but  he  dodged  me.    Perhaps  it  is  just  as  Well      Even  if 
I  were  to  meet  him  now,  I  shou'      '  •         x  the  at  empt 
again,     I  confess  to  feeling  a  littl,        rt,  out  I  thoroughly 
understand  h,m.     He  is  one  of  .hose  men-you  meet  them 
now  and   ;ig^in— survivals   from   the   old   school— with   a 
sense  of  roctinide  so  exact  that  they  can  only  see  in  a  stn.i.'ht 
line      It  is  nil  right      Don't  think  that  I  compbin.     his 
almost  as  much  for  his  sake  as  for  my  own  that  I  wish  he 
could  have  tr.kcn  what  I  call  a  more  comprehensive  view 
of  me      I  l:,,v,  he  suffers-and  I  shall  never  be  al;le  to 
tell  him  how  sorry  I  am  till  we  get  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.     In  fact,  I  can't  explain  anything  to  aiiy'one,  ex- 
cept you,  which  must  be  an  excuse  for  my  long  letters.     I 
try  to  keep  you  posted  in  what  I'm  going  through,  so  fhat 
you  may  convey  as  much  or  as  little  of  it  as  you  think  fit 
to  Evie,     I  can't  tell  her  much,  and  I  see  from  the  li.:t!e 
notes  -Me  writes  me  that  she  doesn't  yet  understand. 

"The  cat  sjerrs  to  be  quite  out  of  the  bag  in  the  office; 
though  I  hav.vn't  said  a  word  to  any  one,  and  I  know  Mr. 
J.Trrott  wouldn't.  Pride  and  sore  feeling  will  keep  him 
from  ever  =;pe;.king  of  me  again,  except  when  he  can't  help 
It.  I  don't  me.m  to  say  that  the  men  know  exietly  what 
It  is,  but  they  know  enough  to  set  them  guessin^  They 
IS  269 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


■I  i«"  i 


«re  jolly  nice  about  it,  too,  even  the  fellows  who  were  hardly 
decent  to  me  in  the  old  days.  Little  Green — the  chap 
from  Boston  who  succeeded  me  at  Rosario;  I  must  have 
told  you  about  him — and  his  wife  can't  do  enough  for  me, 
and  I  know  they  mean  it." 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  weeks  before  he  wrote  again. 

"I  shall  not  get  away  from  here  as  soon  as  I  expected,  as 
my  private  afFsirs  are  not  easily  settled  up.  This  city  grows 
so  fast  that  I  have  had  a  good  part  of  my  savings  in  real 
estate.  I  am  getting  rid  of  it  by  degrees,  but  it  takes  time 
to  sell  to  advantage.  I  may  say  that  I  am  doing  very  well, 
for  which  I  am  not  sorry,  as  I  shall  need  the  money  for  my 
trial  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  referring  to  it,  because 
I  look  forward  to  it  with  something  you  might  almost  call 
glee.  To  get  back  where  I  started  will  be  like  waking  from 
a  bad  dream.  J  can't  believe  that  Justice  will  make  the 
same  mistake  twice — and  even  if  she  does  I  would  rather 
she  had  the  chance.  1  i.n  much  encouraged  by  the  last 
reports  from  Kilcup  and  Warren.  I've  long  felt  that  it 
was  Jacob  Gramm  who  did  for  my  poor  uncle,  though  I 
didn't  like  to  accuse  him  of  it  when  the  proofs  seemed  all 
the  other  way.  He  certainly  had  more  reason  to  do  the 
trick  than  I  had,  for  my  uncle  had  been  a  brute  to  him  for 
thirty  years,  while  he  had  only  worried  me  for  two.  He 
wasn't  half  a  bad  old  chap,  either — old  Gramm — and  it 
was  one  of  the  mysteries  of  the  place  to  me  that  he  could 
have  stood  it  so  long.  The  only  explanation  I  could  find 
was  that  he  had  a  kind  of  affection  for  the  old  man,  such  as 
a  dog  will  sometimes  have  for  a  master  who  beats  him,  or  a 
woman  for  a  drunken  husband,  I  believe  the  moment 
came  when  he  simply  found  himself  at  the  end  of  his  tether 
270 


E 


THE        If'  I  L   D        OLIVE 

of  endurance— and  he  just  did  for  him.  His  grief,  when 
it  was  all  over,  was  real  enoui;h.  Nobody  could  doubt  that. 
In  fact,  it  was  so  evidently  genuine  that  the  theory  I  am 
putting  forward  now  only  ca-<;  to  me  of  la  e  )ears.  I 
think  there  is  something  in  it,  :  I  believe  the  further  they 
go  the  more  they  will  find  to  s  ort  it.  Now  that  the  old 
chap  is  dead  I  should  liave  less,  scruple  in  followinj;  it  up — 
especially  if  the  old  lady  is  gone  too.  She  was  a  bit  of  a 
vixen,  but  the  husband  was  a  good  old  sort.     I  liked  him." 

Some  weeks  later  he  wrote: 

"I  wander  about  this  place  a  good  deal  like  a  ghost  in 
its  old  haunts.  Everything  here  is  so  temporary,  so  chang- 
ing—much more  so  than  in  New  York— that  one's  foot- 
prints are  very  quickly  washed  away.  Outside  the  office 
almost  no  one  remembers  me.  It  is  curious  to  think  that 
I  was  once  so  happy  here — and  so  hopeful.  There  was 
always  a  kind  of  hell  in  my  heart,  but  I  kept  it  banked  down, 
as  we  do  the  earth's  internal  fires,  beneath  a  tolerably  solid 
crust.  Yesterday,  finding  myself  at  the  Hipodromo,  I  stood 
for  a  while  on  the  spot  where  I  first  saw  Evic.  It  used  to 
seem  to  me  a  bit  of  enchanted  ground,  but  I  feci  now  as  if 
I  ought  to  erect  a  gravestone  there.  Poor  lini  ■  Evie!  How 
right  you  were  about  it  all.  It  was  madness  on  my  part  to 
think  she  could  ever  climb  up  my  Calvary.  My  excuse  is 
that  I  didn't  imagine  it  was  going  to  be  so  steep.  1  even 
hoped  she  would  never  see  that  there  was  a  Calvary  at  all. 
Her  notes  are  still  pitifully  ignorant  of  the  real  state  of 
things. 

"And  speaking  of  gravestones,  I  went  out  the  other  day 
to  the  Recoleta  Cemetery,  and  looked  at  the  grave  of  my 
poor  old  friend,  Monsieur  Durand.  Everything  neat,  and 
271 


hi  I 

■  i 


M    !' 


I    • 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

in  good  order.  It  gives  me  a  peculiar  satisfaction  to  see 
that  the  decorum  he  loved  reigns  where  he  'sleeps.'  I  never 
knew  his  secret — except  that  rumor  put  him  down  for  an 
unfrocked  priest. 

"I  doubt  if  I  shall  get  away  from  here  till  the  beginning  of 
October;  but  when  I  do,  everything  will  be  in  trim  for  what 
I  sometimes  think  of  as  my  resurrection." 

These  letters,  and  others  like  them,  Miriam  shared  con- 
scientiously with  Conquest.  It  was  part  of  the  loyalty  she 
had  vowed  to  him  in  her  heart  that  she  should  keep  nothing 
from  him,  except  what  was  sanctified  and  sealed  forever, 
as  her  own  private  history.  In  the  impulse  to  give  her  life 
as  a  ransom  for  Norrie  Ford's  she  was  eager  to  do  it  without 
reserves,  or  repinings,  or  backward  looks — without  even  a 
wish  that  it  had  been  possible  to  make  any  other  use  of  it. 
If  she  was  not  entirely  successful  in  the  last  feat,  she  was 
fairly  equal  to  the  rest,  so  that  in  allowing  himself  to  be 
misled  Conquest  could  scarcely  be  charged  with  fatuity. 
With  his  combined  advantages,  personal  and  otherwise, 
it  was  not  astonishing  that  a  woman  should  be  in  love  with 
him;  and  if  that  woman  proved  to  be  Miriam  Strange,  one 
could  only  say  that  the  unexpected  had  happened,  as  it 
often  does.  If,  in  view  of  all  the  circumstances,  he  dressed 
better  than  ever,  and  gave  his  little  dinners  more  frequently, 
'while  happiness  toned  down  the  sharpness  of  his  handsome 
profile  to  a  softer  line,  he  had  little  in  common  with  Malvolio. 

And  what  he  had  began  to  drop  away  from  him.  Insen- 
sibly he  came  to  see  that  the  display  of  his  legal  knowledge, 
of  his  carefully  chosen  ties,  of  his  splendid  equipment  in 
house,  horses,  and  automobiles,  had  something  of  the  major- 
domo's  strut  in  parti-colored  hose.  The  day  came  when 
272 


THE        fV  I   L    D        0    L    I   F  E 

he  understood  that  the  effort  to  charm  her  by  the  parade 
of  these  things  was  like  the  appeal  to  divine  grace  by  meant 
of  grinding  on  a  prayer-mill.  It  was  a  long  step  to  take, 
both  in  thought  and  emotion,  leading  him  to  see  love,  mar- 
riage, women's  hearts,  and  all  kindred  subjects,  from  a  dif- 
ferent point  of  view.  Love  in  particular  began  tu  appear  to 
him  as  more  than  the  sum  total  of  approbation  bestowed  on 
an  object  to  be  acquired.  Though  he  as  not  prepared  to 
give  it  a  new  definition,  it  was  clear  that  the  old  one  was  no 
longer  sufficient  for  his  needs.  The  mere  fact  rhat  this 
woman,  whom  he  had  vainly  tempted  with  gifts— whom  he 
was  still  hoping  to  capture  by  prowess— could  come  to  him 
of  her  own  accord,  had  a  transforming  effect  on  himself 
If  he  ever  got  her— by  purcl.^se,  conquest,  or  any  other 
form  of  acquisition— he  had  expected  to  be  proud;  he  had 
never  dreamed  of  this  curious  happiness,  that  almost  made 
him  humble. 

It  was  a  new  conception  of  life  to  think  that  there  were 
things  in  it  that  might  be  given,  but  which  could  not  be 
bought;  as  it  was  a  new  revelation  of  himself  to  perceive 
that  there  were  treasures  in  his  dry  heart  which  had  never 
before  been  drawn  on.  This  discovery  was  made  almost 
accidentally.  He  stumbled  on  it,  as  men  have  stumbled  on 
Koh-i-noors  and  Cullinanes  lying  in  the  sand. 

"What  I  really  came  to  tell  you,"  he  said  to  her,  on  one 
occasion,  as  they  strolled  side  by  side  in  the  Park,  "is  that 
I  am  going  away  to-morrow— to  the  West— to  Omaha." 
"Isn't  that  rather  sudden?" 

"Rather.  I've  thought  for  the  last  few  days  I  might  do 
it.     The  fart  is,  they've  found  Amalia  Gramm." 

She  stopped  with  a  sudden  start  of  interrogation,  moving 
on  again  at  once.     It  was  a  hot  September  evening,  at  the 
273 


I  hi 


11 ' 

1! 

■| 

i\ 

■  1    ,  mi 

y. 

!    ,' 


THE        Pr  I   L    D        OLIVE 

hour  when  twilight  merges  into  nipht.  Thiy  had  left 
Wayne  on  a  favorite  seat,  and  havin;;  finished  their  own 
walk  northward,  were  returning  to  pick  him  up  and  take 
him  home.  It  was  just  dark  enough  for  the  thin  crescent  of 
the  harvest  muon  to  he  pendulous  above  the  city,  while  a 
rim  of  lighted  windows  in  high  facades  framed  the  tree- 
tops.  The  peace  of  the  quiet  path  in  w  hich  they  rambled 
seemed  the  more  sylvan  because  of  the  clang  and  rumble 
of  the  streets,  as  a  room  will  appear  more  secluded  and 
•ecure  when  there  is  a  storm  outside. 

"They've  found  her  living  with  some  nieces  out  there," 
he  went  on  to  explain.  "She  appears  to  have  been  half 
over  the  world  since  old  Gramm  died — home  to  Germany — 
back  to  America — to  Denver — to  Chicago — to  Milwaukee 
— to  the  Lord  knows  where — and  now  she  has  fetched  up 
in  Omaha.  She  strikes  me  in  the  light  of  an  unquiet  spirit. 
It  seems  she  has  nephews  and  nieces  all  over  the  lot — and 
as  she  has  the  ten  thousand  dollars  old  Chris  Ford  left 
them—" 

"Are  they  going  to  bring  her  here  ?" 

"They  can't — bedridden  —  paralyzed,  or  something. 
They've  got  to  take  her  testimony  on  the  spot.  I  want  to 
be  there  when  they  do  it.  There  are  certain  questions 
which  it  is  most  important  to  have  asked.  In  a  way,  it  is 
not  my  business;  but  I'm  going  to  make  it  mine.  I've 
mulled  over  the  thing  so  long  that  I  think  I  see  the  psychol- 
ogy of  the  whole  drama." 

"I  can  never  thank  you  enough  for  the  interest  you've 
shown,'  she  said,  after  a  brief  silence. 

He  gave  his  short,  nervous  laugh. 

"Nor  I  you  for  giving  me  the  chance  to  show  it.  That's 
where  the  kindness  comes  in.  It's  made  a  different  worid 
274 


THE        tV  I  L   D        0   L    I 


E 


for  me,  and  m '  a  diffircnt  man  in  it.  If  anyliojy  had  told 
me  iast  wintci  that  I  should  spend  the  whole  summer  in 
town  woikini;  nn  a  criminal  case — " 

"You  shouldn't  have  done  that.  I  wanted  you  to  go 
away  as  usual." 

"And  leave  you  here?" 

"I  shouldn't  have  minded — as  long  as  Mr.  Wayne  pre- 
ferred to  st.>y.  It's  so  hard  for  him  to  p,ct  aoiiut,  ;m\-v\  litre 
but  in  the  p'.ice  ht'.<  accustomed  to.  Ntv.  York  in  suniiner 
isn't  as  bad  as  people  mad;;  me  think." 

"I  too  ha\o  found  that  true  To  me  it  has  been  a  very 
happy  time.  But  perhaps  my  reasons  were  different  from 
yours." 

She  reflected  a  i.iinutt  before  uttering  her  next  words, 
but  decided  to  say  them. 

"I  fancy  cur  reasons  were  the  same." 

The  low  voice,  the  simplicity  of  the  sentence,  the  mean- 
ings in  it  and  behind  it,  made  him  tremble  It  was  then, 
perhaps,  that  he  began  to  see  most  clearly  the  true  nature 
of  love,  both  as  given  and  received. 

"I  don't  think  they  can  be,"  he  ventured,  ho,  :ig  to  draw 
her  on  to  say  something  more;   but  she  did  not  respond. 

After  all,  he  reflected,  as  they  continued  their  walk  more 
or  less  in  silence,  too  many  words  would  only  spod  the 
minute's  bliss.  There  was,  too,  a  pleasure  in  standing  afar 
aff  to  view  the  promised  land  alnicst  equal  to  that  of  march- 
ing  mto  .. — especially  wien,  as  now,  he  was  given  to  under- 
stand that  its  milk  and  honey  wer    awaiting  him 


XXI 


':  a 


!i  i:  ( 


II!  i  r 


was  the  middle  of  October  when  Evie 
wrote  from  Lenox  to  say  she  would  come 
to  town  to  meet  Ford  on  his  ariiv:il,  begging 
Miiiam  to  give  her  shelter  for  a  niiht  or  two. 
I'he  Grants  remaining  abroad.  Miss  Jariott 
had  taken  the  house  in  Seventy-second  Street  for  another 
winter,  but  as  Evie  would  run  up  to  New  York  alone  she 
preferred  for  the  minute  to  be  Miriam's  guest. 

"The  fact  is,  I'm  worried  to  death,"  she  wrote,  confiden- 
tially, "and  you  must  help  me  to  see  daylight  through  this 
tangled  mass  of  everybody  saying  different  things.  Aunt 
Queenie  has  gone  completely  back  on  Herbert,  just  because 
Uncle  Jarrott  has.  That  doesn't  strike  me  as  very  loyal,  I 
must  say  1  shouldn't  think  it  right  to  desert  anybody, 
unless  I  wanted  to.  I  wouldn't  do  it  because  some  one  else 
told  me  to — not  if  he  was  my  brother  ten  times  over.  I 
mean  to  be  just  as  true  to  Herbert  as  I  can  Not  that  he 
makes  it  very  easy  for  me,  because  he  has  broken  altogether 
with  Uncle  Jarrott — and  that  seems  to  me  the  maddest 
thing.  I  certainly  sha'n't  get  my  trousseau  from  Aunt 
Helen  now.  I  don't  see  what  we're  all  coming  to.  Every- 
body is  so  queer,  and  they  keep  hinting  things  they  won't 
say  out,  as  if  there  was  some  mystery.  I  do  wish  I  could 
talk  to  Billy  about  it.  Of  course  I  can't — the  way  matters 
stand.  And  speaking  of  Billy,  that  rich  Mr.  Bird — ^you 
276 


THE        ir  I  L   D        O    L   I  V,  E 

remember  I  toUl  you  about  him  last  winter  -has  asked  me 
to  marry  him.  just  think!  I  for;;et  how  miuh  he  has  a 
year,  l)ut  it's  something  awful.  Of  course  I  told  him  I 
coulJii't  (;Im:  hitn  a  iklinitc  answer  )(t-Init  tlut  if  he  In- 
sisted on  it  I  sliouM  have  to  m.ike  it  No,  He  said  he  didn't 
insist  -that  lu  'd  rather  wait  till  I  had  time  to  make  up  my 
mind,  if  I  didn't  keep  him  dan-'Jing.  I  told  him  I  w.mldn't 
keep  him  doin;;  anythiii;;  whatever,  and  that  if  he  dan;;!ed 
at  all  it  would  be  entirely  of  his  own  aceord.  I  tliink  he 
liked  my  i.pirit,  so  he  said  he'd  wait.  We  left  it  there, 
which  was  the  wisest  way— though  I  must  sjy  I  didn't  like 
his  presuniiir:  on  his  money  to  think  I  would  make  -i  differ- 
ence between  hmi  an  the  others.  Money  doesn't  mean 
anything  to  me,  thou;^  .  dear  mamma  hoped  she  woidd  live 
to  see  me  well  'established.  She  didn't,  poor  darling,  but 
that's  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  try  to  carry  out  her  wishes. 
All  the  sami;,  I  moan  to  be  true  to  '  hert  just  as  long  as 
possible;   and  so  you  may  expect  me      i  the  twenty-ninth." 

If  there  was  much  In  this  letter  that  Miriam  found  dis- 
turbing, it  w;is  not  the  thought  that  Evie  might  be  false 
to  Ford,  or  that  Ford  might  suffer,  which  alarmed  her  most. 
There  was  something  in  her  that  cried  out  in  fear  before 
the  possibility  that  Norrie  Ford  might  be  free  again.  Her 
strength  having  sprung  so  largely  from  the  hope  of  lestoring 
the  plans  she  had  marred,  the  destruction  of  the  motive  left 
her  weak;  but  worse  than  that  was  the  knowledge  that, 
though  she  had  tried  to  empty  her  heart  completely  of  its 
cravings,  only  its  surface  had  been  drained  It  was  to  get 
assurance  rather  than  to  give  information  that  she  read 
fragments  of  Evie's  letter  to  Conquest,  on  the  evening  of 
his  return  from  Omaha.  He  had  come  to  give  her  the 
277 


l-u 


'•, 


.1 1 


4- 


'II 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

news  of  his  success.  That  it  was  good  news  was  evident 
in  his  face  when  he  entered  the  room;  and,  almost  afraid 
to  hear  it,  she  had  broached  the  subject  of  her  anxiety 
about  Evie  first. 

"She's  going  to  give  him  the  sack;  that's  what  sht's  go- 
ing to  give  him,"  Conquest  said,  conclusively,  while  Mi- 
riati  folded  the  dashingly  scribbled  sheets.  "You  needn't 
be  worried  about  her  in  the  least.  Miss  Evie  knows  her 
way  about  as  cleverly  as  a  homing  bee.  She'll  do  well  for 
herself  whatever  else  she  may  not  do.     Come  now!" 

"I'm  not  thinking  of  that  so  much  as  that  shr-  should  do 
fcer  duty." 

"Duty!  Pooh!  That  sort  of  little  creature  has  no  duty 
—the  word  doesn't  apply  to  it.  Evie  is  the  most  skilful 
mixture  of  irresponsible  impulse  and  shrewd  calculation 
you'll  find  in  New  York.  She'll  use  both  her  gifts  with  per- 
feet  heartlessness,  and  yet  in  such  a  way  that  even  her  guar- 
dian angel  won't  know  just  where  to  find  fault  with  her." 
"But  she  must  marry  Mr.  Ford— now." 
He  was  too  busy  with  his  own  side  of  the  subject  to  notice 
that  her  assertion  had  the  intensity  of  a  cry.  He  had  a 
man's  lack  of  interest  in  another  man's  love-affairs  while 
he  was  blissfully  absorbed  in  his  own. 

"You  might  as  well  tell  a  swallow  that  it  must  migrate- 
now,"  he  laughed.  "Poor  Ford  will  feel  it,  I've  no  doubt; 
but  we  shall  make  up  to  him  for  a  good  deal  of  it.  We  re 
going  to  pull  him  through. 

For  the  instant  her  anxiety  was  diverted  into  another 
channel.  "Does  that  mean  that  Amalia  Gramm  has  told 
you  anything  ?" 

"She's  told   us   everything.     I   thought   she  would.    I 
don't  feel  at  liberty  to  give  you  the  details  before  they  come 
2^^ 


1   'll: 


THE        ir  I  L   D        OLIVE 

out  at  the  proper  time  and  place;  but  there's  no  harm  in 
saying  that  my  analysis  of  the  old  woman's  psychological 
state  was  not  so  very  far  wrong.  There's  no  question 
about  it  any  longer.  We'll  pull  him  through.  And,  by 
George,  he's  worth  itl" 

The  concluding  exclamation,  uttered  with  so  much  sin- 
cerity, took  her  by  surprise,  transmuting  the  pressure  about 
her  heart  into  a  mist  of  sudden  tears.  Tears  came  to  her 
rarely,  hardly,  and  seldom  with  relief.  She  was  especially 
unwilling  that  Conquest  should  notice  them  now;  but  the 
attempt  to  dash  them  away  only  caused  them  to  fall  faster. 
She  could  see  him  watching  her  in  a  kind  of  sympathetic 
curiosity,  slightly  surprised  in  his  turn  at  the  unexpected 
emotion,  and  trying  to  divine  its  cause.  Unable  to  bear 
his  gaze  any  longer,  she  got  up  brusquely  from  her  chair, 
retreating  into  the  bay-window,  where — the  curtains  being 
undrawn— she  stood  looking  down  on  the  sea  of  lights,  as 
beings  above  the  firmament  might  look  down  on  stars. 
He  waited  a  minute,  and  came  near  her  only  when  he 
judged  that  he  might  do  so  discreetly. 

"You're  unnerved,"  he  said,  with  tender  kindliness. 
"That's  why  you're  upset.  You've  had  too  much  on  your 
mind.  You're  too  willing  to  take  all  the  care  on  your  own 
shoulders,  and  not  let  other  people  hustle  for  themselves." 

She  was  pressing  her  handkerchief  against  her  lips,  so 
she  made  no  reply.  The  moment  seemed  to  him  one  at 
which  he  might  go  forward  a  little  more  boldly.  All  the 
circumstances  warranted  an  advance  from  his  position  of 
reserve. 

"You  need  me,"  he  ventured  to  say,  with  that  quiet  as- 
surance which  in  a  lover  means  much.     "I  understand  yon 
as  no  one  else  does  in  the  world. 
27q 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


I 
f 


Her  brimming  eyes  gave  him  a  look  which  was  only 
pathetic,  but  which  he  took  to  be  one  of  assent. 

"I've  always  told  you  I  could  help  you,"  he  went  on,  with 
tranquil  earnestness,  "and  I  could.  You've  too  many  bur- 
dens to  carry  alone — burdens  that  don't  belong  to  you,  but 
which,  I  know,  you'll  never  lay  down.  Well,  I'll  share 
them.  There's  Wayne,  now.  He's  too  much  for  you,  by 
yourself— I  don't  mean  from  the  material  point  of  view, 
but — the  whole  thing.  It  wears  on  you.  It's  bound  to. 
Wayne  is  my  friend  just  as  much  as  yours.  He's  my  respon- 
sibility— so  long  as  you  take  it  in  that  light.  I've  been 
thinking  of  him  a  lot  lately — and  I  see  how,  in  my  house — 
I  could  put  him  up — ideally." 

Still  pressing  her  handkerchief  against  her  lips  with  her 
right  hand,  she  put  out  her  left  in  a  gesture  of  deprecation. 
He  understood  it  as  one  of  encouragement,  and  went  on. 

"You  must  come  and  look  at  my  house.  You've  never 
really  seen  it,  and  I  think  you'd  like  it.  I  think  you'd  like — 
everything.  I've  got  everything  to  make  you  happy;  and 
if  you'll  only  let  me  do  it,  you'll  make  me  happy,  too." 

She  felt  able  to  speak  at  last.  Her  eyes  were  still  brim- 
ming as  she  turned  toward  him,  but  brimming  only  as  pools 
are  when  the  rain  is  over. 

"I  want  you  to  be  happy.  You're  so  good  .  .  .  and 
kind  .  .  .  and  you've  done  so  much  for  me  .  .  .  you  de- 
serve it." 

She  turned  away  from  him  again.  With  her  arm  on  the 
woodwork  of  the  window,  she  rested  her  forehead  rather 
wearily  on  her  hand.  He  understood  so  little  of  what  was 
passing  within  her  that  she  found  it  a  relief  to  suspend  for 
the  minute  her  comedy  of  spontaneous  happiness,  letting 
her  heart  ache  unrestrainedly.  Her  left  hand  hanging  limp 
280 


THE        fV  I  L   D        OLIVE 

and  free,  she  made  no  effort  to  withdraw  it  when  she  felt 
him  clasp  it  in  his  own.  Since  she  had  subscribed  to  the 
treaty  months  ago,  since  she  had  insisted  on  domg  it  rightly 
or  wrongly,  it  made  little  difference  wnen  and  how  she 
carried  the  conditions  out.  So  they  stood  hand  in  hand 
together,  tacitly,  but,  ai  each  knew,  quite  effectually, 
plighted.  In  her  silence,  her  resignation,  her  evident  con- 
sent, he  read  the  proof  of  that  love  which,  to  his  mmd,  no 
longer  needed  words. 


Late  that  night,  after  he  had  gone  away,  she  wrote  to 
Evie,  beseeching  her  to  be  true  to  Ford.  The  letter  was  so 
passionate,  so  little  like  herself,  that  she  was  afraid  of 
destroying  it  if  she  waited  till  morning,  so  she  posted  it 
without  delay.  The  answer  came  within  forty-eight  hours, 
in  the  shape  of  a  telegram  from  Evie.  She  was  coming  to 
town  at  once,  though  it  wanted  still  three  or  four  days  to 
Ford's  arrival 

It  was  a  white  little  Evie,  with  drawn  face,  who  threw 
herself  into  Miriam's  arms  at  the  station,  clutching  at  her 
with  a  convulsive  sob. 

"Miriam,  I  can't  do  it,"  she  whispered,  in  a  kind  of 
terror.     "They  say  he's  going  to  be  put  in — jail!" 

Her  voice  rose  on  the  last  word,  so  that  one  or  two  people 
paused  in  their  rush  past  to  glance  at  the  pitifully  tragic 
little  face. 

"Hush,  darling,"  Miriam  whispered  back.  "You'll  tell 
me  about  it  as  we  go  home." 

But  in  the  motor  Evie  could  only  cry,  clinging  to  Miriam 

as  she   used   to  do  in  troubled   moments   in   childhood. 

Arrived  at  the  apartment,  Wayne  had  to  be  faced  with  some 

measure  of  self-control,  and  then  came  dinner.     At  table 

281 


k 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

Evie,  outwardly  mistress  of  herself  by  this  time,  talked 
feverish  nonsense  about  their  common  friends  in  Lenox, 
after  which  she  made  an  excuse  for  retiring  early.  It  WM 
only  in  the  bedroom,  when  they  were  secure  from  inter- 
ruption, that  Miriam  heard  what  Evie  had  to  tell.  She  wa» 
tearless  now,  and  rather  indignant. 

"I've  had  the  strangest  letter  from  Herbert,"  she  de- 
clared, excitedly,  as  soon  as  Miriam  entered  the  room.  "I 
couldn't  have  believed  he  wrote  it  in  his  senses  if  Aunt 
Queenie  hadn't  heard  the  same  thing  from  Uncle  Jarrott. 
He  says  he's  got  to  go  to — jatl. 

There  was  the  same  rising  inflexion  on  the  last  word, 
suggestive  of  a  shriek  of  horror,  that  Miriam  had  noticed 
in  the  station.  In  her  white  peignoir,  her  golden  hair 
streaming  over  her  shoulders,  and  her  hands  flung  wide  , 
apart  with  an  appealing  dramatic  gesture,  Evie  was  not 
unlike  some  vision  of  a  youthful  Christian  martyr,  in  spite 
of  the  hair-brush  in  her  hand.  Miriam  sat  down  sidewise 
on  the  edge  of  the  couch,  looking  up  at  the  child  in  pity. 
She  felt  that  it  was  useless  to  let  her  remain  m  darkne:  any 
longer. 

"Of  coarse  he  has  to,"  she  said,  trying  to  make  her  tone 
jis  matter  of  fact  as  might  be.    "Didn't  you  know  it?" 
"Know  it!     Did  you?" 

Evie  stepped  forward,  bending  over  Miriam  as  if  she 
meant  to  strike  her. 

"I  knew  it  in  a  general  way,  darling.    I  suppose,  when 
he  gives  himself  to  the  police — " 

"The  policel"    Evie  screamed.    "Am  I  to  be  engaged 
to  a  man  who — gives  himself  up  to  the  police  ?" 
"It  will  only  be  for  a  little  while,  dear—" 
"I  don't  care  whether  it's  for  a  little  while  or  fo 
282 


THE        WILD 


0   L    I  V   B 


it  can't  he.  What  is  he  thinking  ol  ?  What  are  you  think- 
ing of?  Don't  you  see?  How  can  I  face  the  world— with 
all  my  invitations — when  the  man  I'm  engaged  to  is — in 
jail  ?'• 

Erie's  hands  flew  up  in  a  still  more  eloquent  gesture, 
while  the  blue  eyes,  usually  so  soft  and  veiled,  were  wide 
with  flaming  interrogation. 

"I  knew  that— in  some  ways— it  might  be  hard  for  you—" 

Evie  laughed,  a  little  silvery  mirthless  ripple  of  scorn. 

"I  must  say,  Miriam,  you  choose  your  words  skilfully. 
But  you're  wrong,  do  you  see  ?  There's  no  way  in  which  it 
can  le  hard  for  me,  because  there's  no  way  in  which  it's 
pos'ble." 

"Oh  yes,  there  is,  dear — if  you  love  him." 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Of  course  I  love  him. 
Haven't  I  said  so  ?  But  that  doesn't  make  any  difl^erence. 
Can't  I  love  him  without  being  engaged  to — to — to  a  man 
who  has  to  go  to  jail  ?" 

"Certainly;  but  you  can't  love  him  if  you  don't  feel 
that  you  must — that  you  simply  must — stand  by  his  side. 

"There  you  go  again,  Miriam,  with  your  queer  ideas. 
It's  exactly  what  any  one  would  expect  you  to  say." 

"I  hope  so." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  hope  so,  because  they  would-  / 
one  who  knew  you.  But  I  have  to  do  what's  right.  I 
know  what  I  feel  in  my  conscience — and  I  have  to  follow 
it.  And  besides,  I  couldn't — I  couldn't" — her  voice  begau 
to  rise  again — "I  ..ouldn't  face  it — I  couldn't  bear  it — not 
if  I  loved  him  a  great  deal  better  than  I  do." 

"That's  something  you  must  think  about  very  seriously, 
dear — " 

"I  don't  have  toP*  she  cried,  with  a  stamp  of  her  foot.    "I 


f 


n  !■  i 


!! 


THE       If'  I  L  D        OLIVE 

know  it  already.  It  wouldn't  make  any  difference  if  I 
thought  about  it  a  thousand  years.  I  couldn't  be  engaged 
to  a  man  who  was  in  jail,  not  if  I  worshipped  the  ground 
he  trod  on." 
"  But  when  he's  innocent,  darling — " 
"It's  jail,  just  the  same.  I  can't  be  engaged  to  people 
just  because  they're  innocent.  It  isn't  right  to  expect  it  of 
me.  And,  anyhow,"  she  added,  passionately,  "I  can't  do 
it.  It  would  kill  me.  I  should  never  lift  my  head  again. 
I  can't — I  can't.  It's  hateful  of  any  one  to  say  I  ought  to. 
I'm  surprised  at  you,  Miriam,  when  you  know  how  dear 
tnamma  would  have  forbidden  it.  It's  all  very  well  for 
you  to  give  advice,  when  you  have  no  family — and  no  one 
to  think  about — and  hardly  any  invitations —  Well,  I 
can't,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  If  that's  your  idea  of  love, 
then,  I  must  say,  my  conception  is  a  little  different.  I've 
always  had  high  ideals,  and  I  feel  obliged  to  hold  to  them, 
however  you  may  condemn  me." 

She  ended  with  a  catch  in  her  breath  something  like  a 
sob. 

"But  I'm  not  condemning  you,  Evie  dear.  If  you  fed 
what  you  say,  there's  nothing  for  it  but  to  see  Mr.  Ford  and 
tell  him  so." 

At  this  suggestion  Evie  sobered.  She  was  a  long  time 
silent  before  she  observed,  in  a  voice  that  had  become  sud- 
denly calm  and  significantly  casual,  "That's  easy  for  you 
to  say." 

"If  you  speak  to  him  as  decidedly  as  to  me,  I  should 
think  it  wotdd  be  easy  for  you  to  do." 

"And  still  ea'ier  for  you." 

Evie  spoke  in  that  tone  of  unintentional  intention  whidi 
M  most  pointed.    It  waa  not  lost  on  Miriam,  who  recoiled 
a84 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

from  the  mere  thought.  It  seemed  to  her  better  to  ignore 
the  hint,  but  Evie,  with  feverish  eagerness,  refused  to  let 
it  pass. 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  said  ?"  she  persisted,  sharply. 

"I  heard  it,  dear;  but  it  didn't  seem  to  me  to  mean 
anything." 

"That  would  depend  on  whether  you  heard  it  only  with 
the  ear  or  in  the  heart." 

"You  know  that  everything  that  has  to  do  with  you  is  in 
my  heart." 

"Well,  then?'^ 

"But  if  you  mean  by  that  that  I  should  tell  Mr.  Ford 
you're  not  going  to  marry  him — why,  it's  out  of  the  ques- 
tion." 

"Then  who's  to  tell  him  ?  /  can't.  It's  not  to  be 
expected  " 

"But,  darling,  you  must.     This  is  awful." 

Miriam  got  up  and  went  toward  her,  but  Evie,  who  wa» 
nervously  brushing  her  hair,  edged  away. 

"Of  course  it's  awful,  but  I  don't  see  the  use  of  making 
it  worse  than  it  need  be.  Hell  feel  it  a  great  deal  more 
if  he  sees  me,  and  so  shall  I." 

"And  what  shall  I  feel  ?"  Miriam  spoke  unguardedly, 
but  Evie  was  too  preoccupied  to  notice  the  bitterness  of  the 
tone. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  feel  anything  at  all.  It's 
nothing  to  you — or  very  little.  It  wouldn't  be  your  fault; 
not  any  more  than  it's  the  postman's  if  he  has  to  bring  you 
a  letter  with  bad  news  " 

Miriam  went  back  to  her  place  on  the  edge  of  the  couch, 
where  with  her  forehead  bowed  for  a  minute  on  her  hand 
she  sat  reflectmg.  An  overwhelming  desire  for  confidence, 
19  285 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 


liiis 


!    !! 


for  sympathy  perhaps,  for  the  clearing  up  of  mysteries  in 
any  case,  was  impelling  her  to  tell  Evie  all  that  had  ever 
happened  between  Ford  and  herself  It  had  been  neces- 
sary to  maintain  so  many  reserves  that  possibly  this  new 
light  would  enable  Evie  to  see  her  own  duty  more  straight- 
forwardly. 

"Darling,"  she  began,  "I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing— " 

But  before  she  could  proceed  Evie  flung  the  hair-brush 
on  the  floor  and  uttered  a  great  swelling  sob  With  her 
hands  hanging  at  her  sides,  and  her  golden  head  thrown 
back,  she  wept  with  the  abandonment  of  a  child,  while  sug- 
gesting the  seraphic  suffering  of  a  grieving  angel  by  some 
old  master. 

In  an  instant  Miriam  had  her  in  her  arms.  It  was  the 
appeal  she  had  never  been  able  to  resist 

"Tliere,  there,  my  pet,"  she  said,  soothingly,  drawing 
her  to  the  couch.  "Come  to  Miriam,  who  loves  you. 
There,  there." 

Evie  clung  to  her  piteously,  with  flower-like  face  tilted 
outward  and  upward  for  the  greater  convenience  of  weeping. 

"Oh,  I  m  so  lonely!"  she  sobbed.  "I'm  so  lonely.  .  .  I 
\  wish  dear  mamma  .  .  .  hadn't  died, 

Miriam  pressed  her  the  more  closely. 

"I'm  so  lonely.  .  .  and  everything's  so  strange  .  .  and  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  .  .  .  and  he's  gomg  to  be  put  in 
jail  .  .  .  and  you're  so  unkind  to  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  dear!  ...  I 
can't  tell  him         I  can't  tell  him  .  .    I  can't .  .  .  I  can't . . ." 

She  pillowed  her  head  on  Miriam's  shoulder,  like  a  child 
that  would  force  a  caress  from  the  hand  that  has  just  been 
striking  it.     The  action  filled  Miriam  with  that  kind  of  self- 
reproach  which  the  weak  creature  inspires  so  easily  in  the 
286 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

itTong.    In  spite  of  her  knowledge  to  the  contraiy,  ihe  had 
the  feeling  of  having  acted  (ellishly. 

"No,  darling,"  she  said,  at  last,  as  Evie's  sobs  subdued 
into  convulsive  tremblings,  "you  needn't  tell  him.  I'll  see 
him.  He'll  understand  how  hard  it's  been  for  you.  It's 
been  hard  for  every  one— and  especially  for  you,  darling. 
I'll  do  my  best.  You  know  I  will.  And  I'm  sure  he'U 
understand.  There,  there,"  she  comforted,  as  Evie's  tear* 
broke  out  afresh.  "Have  your  cry  out,  dear.  It  will  do 
you  good.     There,  there. 

So  Evie  wenL  back  next  day  to  Lenox,  while  Miiian 
waited  for  Ford. 


XXII 


* 


.y^iBM  FEW  days  later  she  read  his  name,  in  a 


morning  paper,  in  the  /Asiatic's  list  of  passi  n- 
gers,  the  steamer  having  arrived  at  quaran- 
tine the  night  before;  Mr.  John  Norrit  Ford. 
'2i  Though  flung  carelessly  into  a  paragraph 
printtd  in  small  type,  it  seemed  to  blaze  in  f;ie  on  the  pafrel 
It  was  as  if  all  America  must  rise  at  it.  As  she  looked  fjom 
the  window  it  was  with  something  like  Furprise  thit  she 
saw  the  stream  of  traffic  roaring  onward,  heedless  of  the 
fact  that  this  dread  name  was  being  hawked  in  the  streets 
and  sold  at  the  news-stands.  She  sent  out  for  the  evening 
papers  tha:  appear  at  midday,  being  reii.'ved  and  :  stonished 
to  find  that  as  yet  it  h->d  creat;d  no  :-.nsrition. 

She  was  not  deceived  by  his  ease  cf  manner  when  he 
appeared  at  the  apartment  in  the  afternoon.  Though  he 
carried  hir  head  loftily,  and  smiled  with  his  l.aliitual  air 
of  confidence,  she  could  see  that  th-,  deep  waici  of  the 
proud  had  gone  over  his  soul.  Their  cub  had  streaked  hic 
hair  ard  bearc'  with  white,  and  deepened  the  wrinkles  that 
meant  concc'itrated  will  into  the  fiiiro.vs  thai  come  of 
suffering.  Ehe  was  more  or  less  prepared  for  that.  It 
was  the  outward  manifestation  of  what  ;.he  had  read  between 
the  lines  of  the  If  ers  he  had  written  her.  As  he  crossed 
the  room,  with  hi>nd  outstretched,  her  one  conscious  thought 
was  of  the  cha-  e  to  be  a  woman  and  a  helpmeet  Evie  had 
288 


THE        fr  I   L   D        O   L   J   r   E 

iuDj;  away.     She  had  noticed  haw,  on  the  very  thrrshoij,  h« 
bad  glanced  twice  about  the  room,  expectirg  to  find  her  iher;. 

They  did  not  ipcilc  of  iier  At  once.  Tliey  talkctj  of  tom- 
inonpl:".e,  IntroJjctory  th'  •<ri — chc  voyap?,  the  arrival, 
the  hotel  at  whi'h  he  wa  staying — anything  that  uould 
help  her,  and  peiaaps  him,  to  conciol  the  preliminary 
nervouiiie^s.  Thcr.-  was  no  sign  of  it,  however,  on  his 
part,  v'hik  sh^  felt  -icr  own  spi.it  rising,  as  it  always  did,  to 
ne't  eTiprgcrci^s.  Pri"s.;nt!y  she  mentioned  her  feari 
regarding  his  u::  of  his  true  name. 

"No;  it  isn't  dangcro'.iS,"  hs  assured  her,  "because  I'm 
out  of  danger  no. v.  Thank  the  Lord,  that's  all  over  I 
don't  have  to  live  wi.'i  a  ,!;reat  hulking  tei.  ;r  behind  me 
any  longer.  I'm  a  mtt,  like  any  other.  You  car.'t  imagine 
what  it  merns  to  be  yourself,  and  not  'o  care  who  know s  it. 
I'm  afrai.!  I  parade  my  name  just  like  a  boy  with  a  new 
wjtch,  who  wants  to  t:ll  every  one  the  time.  So  far  no  one 
has  caid  any  particular  attention;  but  I  dare  say  :hat  will 
come      Is  Evie  here  ?" 

"S'.i'^'s  not  here — to-Ai/." 

"  Why  not  i"  he  s  sked,  sharply.  "  She  said  she  would  be. 
She  said  she'd  coir.e  to  town — " 

'Ghe  did  come  to  town,  but  she  thought  she'd  better 
not— stay." 

"Not  stay?  Why  shouldn't  she  stay .'  Is  anything  up ? 
You  don't  rr^ean  that  Miss  Jarrott — ?" 

"  No;  Miss  Jarrott  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  know 
her  brother  has  written  to  her,  in  the  way  yon  must  be  pre- 
pared for.  But  she  couldn't  have  kept  Evie  from  waitmg 
for  you,  if  Evie  herself^" 

"  Had  wanted  to,"  he  finished,  as  she  seemed  to  hesitat? 
tt  the  words. 

aS9 


■Nl 


THE        fr   I  L   D        O    I,    !    V   B 

Since  sh'.'  said  nothing  to  modify  this  assertion,  she  hoped 
he  would  comprehend  ItJ  gravity.     Indeed,  he  seemed  lo 
be  trying  to  attenuate  that  when  he  spoke  next. 
"I  suppose  she  had  engagements— or  something." 
"She   did  have  engagements— but  she  could  haTe  put 
them  off." 
"Only  she  didn't  care  to.     I  see.' 

She  allowed  him  time  to  accept  this  fact  before  going  on. 
"Her  return  to  Lenox,"  she  said  then,  "wasn't  becauM 
of  her  engagements." 

"Then  it  must  have  been  because  of  me.    Didn't  fhe 
want  to  see  me  ?" 

"She  diun't  want  to  tell  you  what  she  felt  she  would  hav« 
to  say." 
"Oh!    So  that  was  it." 

He  continued  to  sit  looking  at  her  with  an  expression  of 
interrogation,  though  it  was  evident  from  his  eyes  that  his 
questions    had    been    answered.    They    sat    in    the    same 
relative  positions  as  on  the  night  of  their  last  lonp  talk 
together,  he  in  his  big  arm-chair,  she  in  her  low  one.    It 
struck  htT  as  strange — while  he  stared  at  her  with  that  gaze 
of  inquiry  from  which  the  inquiry  was  gone— that  she,  who 
meant  so  little  to  his  inner  life,  should  be  called  on  anain  to 
live  through  with  him  minutes  that  must  fc  -ver  remain 
memorable  in  his  existence. 
"Poor  little  thing!    So  she  funiced  telling  me.'' 
The  comment  was  i  -ade  musingly,  to  himself,  but  she 
took  it  as  if  addressed  •  i  her. 
"She  Wasn't  equal  to  it." 

"  But  you  are.     You're  equal  to  anything.     Aren't  you  f 
He  smiled  with  that  peculiar  twisted  smile  which  she  had 
■oticed  at  other  times,  when  he  was  concealing  pain. 
290 


r  B 


THE        fy  I  L   D        OLIVE 

"One  ii  generally  equal  to  what  one  has  to  do.  All  the 
•ame,"  she  added,  vith  an  impulse  «he  could  not  repress, 
"I'm  sorry  to  be  always  associated  in  your  mind  with 
things  that  must  be  hard  for  you." 

"You're  associated  in  my  mind  with  everything  that'* 
high  and  noble.  That's  the  only  memory  I  shall  ever  have 
of  you.  You've  been  with  me  through  some  of  the  dark 
fpots  of  my  life;  but  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  shouldn't 
have  found  the  way." 

"Thank  you.  I'm  glad  you  can  say  that.  I  should  be 
eren  more  sorry  th.-n  I  am  to  give  you  this  news  to-day,  if 
it  were  not  that  perhaps  I  can  explain  things  a  little  better 
than  Evie  could." 

"I  don't  imagine  that  they  require  much  explanation. 
I'tb  seen  from  Evie's  letters  that—  " 

"That  she  was  afraid  of— the  situation.  She  hasn't 
changed  toward  you." 

"Do  you  mean  by  thii  that  she  itill— cares  anything 
about  me  ?" 

"She  says  she  does." 

"  But  you  don't  believe  her." 

"I'm  not  entitled  to  an  opinion.  It's  something  you  and 
she  must  work  out  together.  All  I  can  do  is  to  tell  you 
what  may  give  you  a  little  hope." 

She  watched  fo;  the  brightening  effect  of  these  words 
upon  him,  but  he  sat  looking  absently  at  the  floor,  as  if  he 
had  not  heard  them. 

"Evie  is  afraid,"  she  continued,  "but  I  think  it's  only 
fair  to  remember  that  the  circumstances  might  well  frighten 
any  young  girl  of  her  sort." 

He   showed  that   he   followed   her   by  nodding  assent, 
diough  he  neither  lifted  his  head  nor  spoke. 
391 


THE 


fV  1   L    D        O    L   I   r  B 


■A  i\ 


"She  wantiJ  me  to  tell  you  that  whil«  the — the  trial — 
and  other  things — are  going  on,  she  couldn't  be  engaged 
to  you — I'm  using  her  own  expressic  i,  but  she  didn't  say 
that,  when  it  was  all  over  and  you  were  fr;.^,  she  wouldn  t 
marry  you.     1  notlLeJ  that." 

He  Uvjked  up  quickly. 

"I'm  not  sure  thr.t  I  catch  your  (Trifc." 

"  I  mean  that  v/hen  if's  all  over,  and  everything  has  ended 
as  you  hope  it  will,  it  may  'je  r.uitc  f  oscl-Ic  for  you  to  win 
her   back." 

He  stared  at  her,  with  an  iricrcdulous  H.'ting  of  the  eye- 
brows. 

"Would  you  advise  me  to  try?" 

"  It  isn't  a  matter  I  could  givs  advice  r.bout.  I'm  show- 
ing you  what  might  be  possible,  but — " 

"No,  no.  That  sort  of  thing  dc^jn't  vok.  There  was 
just  a  chance  that  Evie  might  have  stuck  to  ir.s  spontane- 
ously;   but  since  she  didn't 

"  Since  she  didn't — what  ?" 

"She  was  quit;  right  not  to.  I  :dmit  that.  It's  in  the 
order  of  things.  She  followed  her  ir.,^ciriC':  rarf'.er  than  her 
heart — I'm  ready  to  believe  that — but  there  are  times  in 
life  when  instinct  is  a  pretty  good  guide." 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you're  not — hur,.? — or  disap- 
pointed ?     Because  in  that  case — " 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  or  not.  That's  frank.  I'm 
feeling  so  many  things  all  at  once  that  !  can  hardly  distin- 
guish one  emotion  from  another,  or  tell  wiiich  is  strongest. 
I  only  know — it's  become  quite  plain  to  me — that  a  little 
creature  like  Evie  couldn't  find  a  happy  home  in  my  life, 
any  more  than  a  humming-bird,  as  you  once  called  her, 
could  make  its  nest  among  crags." 
292 


B 


T   HE        WILD        OLIVE 

"Do  you  mean  by  that,"  she  asked,  slowly,  "that  you're 
—definitely— letting  her  go?" 

"I  mi;in  that.  Fvie  being  what  she  is,  and  I  being  what 
life  his  ni2  Ic  trc—  Isn't  it  perfectly  evident?  Can  you 
fancy  -js  tied  together — now  ?" 

"I  never  could  fancy  it.  I  haven't  concealed  that  from 
you  at  a.-,y  time.  But  since  you  loved  her,  and  she  loved 
you — " 

"That  was  true  enough — in  its  way.  in  its  way,  it's 
Still  true.  Evie  still  loves  the  man  I  was,  perhapr,  and  the 
man  I  was  loves  her.  The  I'.ifference  '■%  that  the  man  I  was 
isn't  fining  here  in  front  of  you.  ' 

"One  changes  wit'.i  years,  of  course.  I  didn't  suppose 
one  CO  aid  change  'n  a  f^w  mo.ii^s,  lilce  that." 

"One  changes  witli  experience— above  all,  with  that  kind 
of  experie.ice  \,  .lich  people  generally  cad— sufiering  That's 
the  great  Alchcmi'.t;  a.id  he  often  transmutes  ou.-  silver 
into  gold.  In  my  ease,  Evie  was  silver;  but  I've  found 
there  .;  somerh'njr  el.-:e  that  stands   for — 

"So  that,"  bhc  interposed,  quickly,  "you're  not  sorry 
that  Evie — .'" 

He  gov  up,  lestlessly,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  empty 
fireplace. 

"!:  isn't  a  case  ♦'jr  )rrow,"  he  replied,  after  a  minute's 
thinl-.inj:,  "as  it  isn't  one  for  joy.  It  s  one  purely  for 
acceptance.  When  I  first  knew  Evie  I  war  still  something 
of  a  kid.  It  was  'o  rl!  the  more  because  the  kid  element 
in  me  had  never  had  full  play.  I  was  arrogant,  ani  cock- 
sure, ^nd  certain  of  my  ability  to  manipulate  tht  world  to 
suit  myself.  Thaf  was  ail  Evie  saw,  and  she  liked  't.  In 
as  far  as  she  had  it  in  her  to  f^.U  in  love  with  anything,  she 
fell  in  love  with  it." 

293 


H 


THE        fF  I  L   D        OLIVE 

He  took  a  turn  or  two  across  the  room,  coming  back  to 
his  stand  on  the  hearth-rug. 

"I've  travelled  far  since  then,"  he  continued;  "I've  had 
to  travel  far.  Evie  hasn't  been  able  to  come  with  me; 
and  that's  all  there  is  to  the  story.  It  isn't  her  fault;  be- 
cause, when  i  asked  her,  I  had  no  intention  of  taking  this 
particular  way." 

"It  was  1  who  drove  you  into  that,"  she  said,  with  a  hint 
of  remorse. 

"Yes — you — and  conscience — and  whatever  else  I  honor 
most.  I  give  you  the  credit  first  of  all,  because,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you,  I  shouldn't  have  had  the  moral  energy  to 
assert  my  true  self  against  the  false  one.  Isn't  it  curious 
that,  after  having  made  me  Herbert  Strange,  it  should  be 
jrou  who  turned  me  into  Norrie  Ford  again  ?  It  means  that 
you  exercise  supreme  power  over  me — a  kind  of  creative 
power.  You  can  make  of  me  what  you  care  to.  It's  no 
wonder  that  I've  come  to  see — "  He  paused,  in  doubt  as 
to  how  to  express  himself,  while  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him 
in  troubled  questioning.  "It's  no  wonder,"  he  went  on 
again,  "that  I've  come  to  see  everything  in  a  truer  light — 
Evie  as  well  as  all  the  rest  of  it." 

With  a  renewed  impulse  to  move  about,  he  strode  toward 
the  bay-window,  where  he  stood  for  a  few  seconds,  looking 
out  and  trying  to  co-ordinate  his  thoughts.  Wheeling 
round  again,  he  drew  up  a  small  chair  close  to  hers, 
seating  himself  sidewise,  with  his  arm  resting  on  the 
back.  He  looked  like  a  man  anxious  to  explain  him- 
self. 

"You're  blaming  me,  I  think,  because  I  don't  take  Evie's 
defection  more  to  heart.     Isn't  that  so  ?" 

"  I'm  not  blaming  you.  Imaybea  little  surprised  at  it." 
294 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

"You  wouldn't  be  surprised  at  it,  if  you  knew  all  I'tb 
been  through.  It's  difficult  to  explain  to  you — " 
"There's  no  reason  why  you  should  try." 
"But  I  want  to  try.  I  want  you  to  know.  You  see,"  he 
pursued,  peaking  slowly,  as  if  searching  for  the  right 
words — "you  see,  it's  largely  a  question  of  progress — of 
growth.  Trouble  has  two  stages.  In  the  first,  you  think 
it  hard  luck  that  you  should  have  to  meet  it.  In  the  second, 
you  see  that,  having  met  it,  and  gone  through  it,  you  come 
out  into  a  region  of  big  experience,  where  everything  is 
larger  and  nobler  than  you  thought  it  was  before.  Now, 
you'd  probably  think  me  blatant  if  I  said  that  I  feel  myself 
emerging  into — that." 

"No,  I  shouldn't  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  know  you're 
doing  it." 

"Well,  then,  having  got  there— out  into  that  new  kind  of 
world  " — he  sketched  the  vision  witi;  une  of  his  Latin  gestures 
— "I  discover  that — for  one  reason  or  another — poor  little 
Evie  has  stayed  on  the  far  side  of  it.  She  couldn't  pass 
the  first  gate  with  me,  or  the  second,  or  the  third,  to  lay 
nothing  of  those  I  have  still  to  go  through.  You  know  I'm 
not  criticising,  or  finding  fault  with  her,  don't  you  ?" 

She  assured  him  of  that. 

"And  yet,  I  must  go  on,  you  see.  There's  no  waiting  or 
taming  back  for  me,  any  more  than  for  a  dying  man.  No 
matter  who  goes  or  who  stays,  I  must  press  forward.  If 
Evie  can't  make  the  Journey  with  me,  1  can  only  feel  relieved 
diat  she's  able  to  slip  out  of  it — but  I  must  still  go  on.  I 
can't  look  back;  I  can't  even  be  sorry — because  I'm  coming 
mto  the  new,  big  land.     You  see  what  I  mean  ?" 

She  signified  ag.iin  that  she  followed  him. 

"But  the  finding  of  a  new  land  doesn't  take  anything 
295 


•  i  f: 


from  the  old  one.  It  orly  enlarges  the  world  -!.urope 
didn't  become  different  because  they  discovered  America. 
The  oniy  change  was  in  their  getting  to  know  a  countiy 
where  the  mountains  were  higner,  and  the  r.vers  broader, 
and  the  sunshine  brighter,  and  where  there  was  a  chance 
for  the  rac,  to  expand.  Evie  remains  what  she  was  I  he 
only  Jiffevence  is  that  my  eyes  have  oeer^  opened  to-a 

new  ideal."  , 

It  ,vas  impos3ibh  for  her  not  to  guc.s  at  what  he  .vacant. 
Independently  of  words,  his  earnest  oyer.  toU   then   tale, 
while  he  bent  toward  her  like  a  man  not  qu,tc  ^^^  »/<=- 
strain  V.imsclf.     In  the  ensuing  seconds  of  silence  she  had 
time  .o  be  aware  cf  three  distinct  phases  of  emotion  »ithm 
her  .on=eIousness,   following  each  other  so  rapidly  a.   to 
seem  .l-.ultaneous.     A  throb  of  reckless  joy  m  the   per- 
ceptk.n  that  he  loved  her  was  succeeded  by  the  knovvledge 
that  loyahv  tc  Conquest  must  make  rejo.cng  vam,  while  it 
flashed  o.'her  that,  h.ving  duped  herself  .nee  m  regard  to 
him   -he  must  not  risk  the  humiliating  experience  a  second 
time  '   't  was  t!  i.  i'st  reflecuon  that  prevailed,,  keeping  her 
still  'a-.c:  unresponsive.     After  all   1;^  new  ideal  might  be 
somcthiag-or  son^.  one-quite   different  from  what  het 
fond  imagining  wa5  so  ready  to  believe. 

-I  :uppose;'  she  said,  vaguely,  ^o-  the  sake  of  saymg 
something,  "that  trial  is  the  first  esscncial  to  rnatunty.  We 
„eTd  it  fo;  our  ripening,  as  the  flowers  and  fruit  need  wind 

'"  •  And'here  are  thing,  in  life,"  he  returned,  quickly,  "that 
no  immature  creature  can  see.  That's  the  pomt  I  want  you 
to  notice.    It  explains  me.    In  a  way  it's  an  excu.e  for  me 

"I   don't  need  excuses  for  you,"   she  hastened  to  say, 
"any  more  than  I  require  to  have  anythmg  expUmcd. 
296 


THE        JV  I  L   D        OLIVE 

"No;  of  course  not.  You  don't  care  anything  about  it 
It's  only  I  who  do.  But  I  care  so  much  that  I  want  you  to 
■nderstand  why  it  was  that— that— I  didn't  care  Ijefore." 

She  felt  the  prompting  to  stop  him,  to  silence  him,  but 
once  more  she  held  herself  back.  There  was  rti'l  a  pos- 
iibility  that  .-^he  was  mistaking  him,  and  her  pride  was  on 

its  guard.  »  l    . 

"  It  was  because  I  didn't  know  any  better,  he  burst  out, 
in  naive  self-reproach.  "It  wai,  b-caujc  I  couldn't  recog- 
nize the  high,  'he  fine  thing  v.hcn  I  saw  it.  I^ c  had  that 
experience  in  other  ways,  and  with  just  the  same  result. 
It  was  like  that  x/h'^n  i  first  began  to  hear  o;ood  music.  I 
couldn't  make  it  out-it  was  nothing  but  a  eras!,  of  sounds. 
I  preferred  the  ditties  and  dances  o.""  a  mr.sical  comedy;  and 
it  was  only  by  degrees  th.u  I  began  to  fine)  th:m  fat.  Then 
my  ear  caught  something  of  the  wonderful  ihiigs  m  the 
gymphonics  that  used  to  bore  ms.    Ycu  see,  I'm  slow— I'm 

ttupid — 

"Not  at  all,"  she  smiled.  "U::  q.'ite  :>  common  ex- 
perience." 

"But  I'm  hke  that  all  throuj^h,  with  cverythmg.  I  ve 
teen  like  thai— with  women.  I  used  to  be  attrrcted  by 
quite  an  ordinary  sort.  It"s  taken  ne  year?— .il'  these 
years,  till  I'm  tli'.rty-three- to  see  thnc  tl  cre's  ■  nerfect 
expression  of  the  htman  type,  ju.'t  as  there's  a  j..rlect  ex- 
pression of  any  kind  of  art.     And  I've  fcuna_r.  ' 

He  ben:  faiher  forv-'ard,  nearer  to  he/  i!:^.-  was  a 
light  in  his  fa.  t'lat  seer.ned  to  her  to  denote  ont!:^:.iaBm 
quite  as  much  as  love.  To  her  wid-r  experience  in  er.io- 
tions  this  discovery  of  himself,  which  was  involved  n;  his 
discovery  of  her,  was  rather  youthful,  provoking  a  faint 
imile. 


.■•■■'''''■• 


* 


THE        WILD 


LIFE 


\m 


1 

;       i 


"You're  to  be  congratulated,  then,"  she  said,  with  an 
air  of  distant  friendliness.  "It  isn't  every  one  who'i  so 
foitunatc." 

"That's  true.  There's  only  one  man  in  the  world  who's 
more  fortunate  than  I.     That's  Conquest." 

"Oh!" 

In  the  brusqueness  with  which  she  started  she  pushed  her 
chair  slightly  back  from  him.  It  was  to  conceal  her  agita- 
tion that  she  rose,  steadying  herself  on  the  back  of  the  chair 
in  which  she  had  been  seated. 

"Conquest  saw  what  I  didn't — till  it  was  too  late." 

He  was  on  his  feet  now,  facing  her,  with  the  chair  between 
them. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  any  more,"  she  begged,  though 
without  overemphasis  of  pleading.  She  wis  anxious,  for 
her  own  sake  as  well  as  for  his,  to  keep  to  the  tone  of  the 
colloquial. 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't.  I'm  not  going  to  say  any- 
thing to  shock  you.  I  know  you're  going  to  marry  Con- 
quest.    You  told  me  so  before  I  went  away,  and — " 

"I  should  like  to  remind  you  that  Mr.  Conquest  is  the 
best  friend  you  have.  When  you  hear  what  he's  done  for 
you,  you  will  see  that  you  owe  him  more  than  you  do  any 
man  in  the  vorld." 

"I  know  that.  I'm  the  last  to  forget  it.  But  it  c.-n't 
do  any  harm  to  tell  the  woman — who's  going  to  be  his  wife 
—that  I  owe  her  even  more  than  I  do  him." 

"It  can't  do  any  harm,  perhaps;  but  when  I  ask  you 
not  to — " 

"  I  can't  obey  you.  I  shouldn't  be  a  man  if  I  went  through 
life  without  some  expression  of  my — gratitude;  and  now't 
die  only  time  to  make  it.  There  are  things  which  I  wasn't 
398 


m  ,  'hi  SF- 


V  E 


THE        WILD         O   L   I   V  E 

free  to  say  before,  because  I  was  bound  to  Enc-and 
which  It  will  soon  be  too  late  for  you  to  listen  to,  l)ecause 
you  11  be  bound  to  him.  You're  not  bound  to  him 
yet-" 

"I  am  bound  to  him,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  in  which  there 
were  all  the  regrets  he  had  no  reason  to  divine.  'I  don't 
know  what  you  think  of  saying;  but  whatever  it  is,  I  implore 
you  not  to  say  it." 

"It's  preci.scly  because  you  don't  know  that  I  feel  the 
necessity  of  telling  you.  It's  something  I  owe  you.  It'« 
like  a  debt.  It  isn't  as  if  we  were  just  any  man  and  any 
woman.  We're  a  man  and  a  woman  in  a  very  special 
relation  to  each  other.  No  matter  what  happens,  nothing 
can  change  that.  And  it  isn't  as  if  we  were  going  to  live 
m  the  same  world,  in  the  same  way.  You  will  be  Conquest's 
wite-a  great  lady  in  New  York.  I  shall  be-well,  Heaven 
only  knows  what  I  shall  be,  but  r.othing  that's  likely  to 
cross  your  path  again.  All  the  same,  it  won't  hurt  you,  it 
wouldn't  hurt  any  woman,  however  good,  to  hear  what  I'm 
going  to  tell  you.  It  wouldn't  hurt  any  man-not  even 
Conquest— that  it  should  be  said  to  his  wife-in  the  way 
that  I  shall  say  it.     If  it  could,  I  wouldn't—" 

"Wait  a  minute,"  she  said,  suddenly.  "Let  me  ask 
you  something."  She  took  a  step  toward  him,  though  her 
hand  rested  still  on  the  back  of  the  chair.  "If  I  know  it 
already,"  she  continued,  looking  him  in  the  eyes,  "there 
would  be  no  necessity  for  you  to  speak  .'" 

He  took  the  time  to  consider  this  in  all  its  bearings. 
^^  "I'd  rather  tell  you  in  my  own  words,"  he  said,  at  last; 
"but  if  you  assure   .T.e  that   you  know,  I  shall  be   sat- 
isfied." 

She  took  a  step  nearer  to  him  still.    Oniy  the  tips  of  her 
J99 


•i.'visriwTr 


T  HE        fV   I   L   D O    L    I   V   R 

fingers  now  rested  on  tht  back  of  the  chair,  to  which  sh« 
held,  as  to  a  bulwark.     Before  she  spoke  she  glanced  round 
the  rooiii,  as  though  afraid  lest  the  doors  and  walls  might 
mistake  her  wordi  for  a  confession. 
"Then  I  do  know,"  she  said,  quietly. 


I  ' 

;  ' 

ii 

£r. 

1 

i 

i 

i 

il 

xxin 


1HE  old  lady  was  willing  enough  to  talk," 

Conquest  assured  Ford,  in  his  narrative  of 

the  taking  of  Amalia  Gramm's  testimony. 

w  J  »,ri  "There's    nothing    more    loquacious    than 

iCiVvv"  '.-Tf- ^^t^  i' 

gft--'''-,'--''A-a|  remorse.  I  figured  on  that  before  going 
out  to  Uinaha." 

"  But  if  she  had  no  hand  in  the  crime,  I  don't  see  where 
the  remorse  comes  in." 

"It  comes  in  vicariously.  She  feels  it  for  Jacob,  since 
Jacob  didn't  live  to  feel  it  for  himself  II  involves  a  subtle 
element  of  wifely  devotion  which  I  juess  you're  t-^o  young, 
or  too  inexperienced,  to  understand.  £ii;  was  j;Ud  old 
Jacub  wai  gone,  so  that  she  could  make  liis  confession  with 
impunity.  She  v/as  willing  to  make  any  atoneme.u  within 
her  power,  since  it  ',-as  tec  late  to  call  him  to  account." 

"Isn't  tbat  a  bit  far-fetched?" 

"  Possibly — c.'icept  to  a  priest,  or  a  lawyer,  rr  a  woman 
herself  It  isn't  often  that  a  woman's  heroi  .m  works  in  a 
straight  line,  like  ?.  soldier's,  or  a  fireman's.  It  {:,?nerally 
pops  at  you  round  some  queer  corner,  where  ir  takes  you 
by  surprise.  Before  leaving  Omaha  Id  come  to  see  that 
Amalia  Gramm  was  by  no  means  the  least  valiant  cf  her 
sex." 

Conquest's  smoking-room,  with  its  space  and  height,  its 
deep  leather  arm-chairs,  its  shaded  lamps,  its  cheerful  fire. 
20  301 


11 


n  n 


Hi 


THE        fV  I  L   D O   LIVE 

•uggcsted  a  club  rather  than  a  private  dwelling,  and  invited 
the  most  taciturn  guest  to  confidence.  Ford  stretched  him- 
lelf  before  the  blaze  with  an  enjoyment  rendered  keeijer  by 
the  thought  that  it  might  be  long  before  he  had  occasion  to 
don  a  dinner-jacket  again,  or  taste  such  a  good  Havana. 
Though  it  was  only  the  evening  of  his  arrival,  he  was  eager 
to  give  himself  up.  Now  that  he  had  "squared  himself," 
as  he  expressed  it,  with  Miriam  Strange,  he  felt  he  had  put 
the  last  touch  to  his  preparations.  Kilcup  and  Warren 
were  holding  him  back  for  a  day  or  two,  but  his  own  prompt- 
ings were  for  haste. 

"I  admit,"  Conquest  continued  to  explain,  as  he  fidgeted 
about  the  room,  moving  a  chair  here,  or  an  ash-tray  there, 
with  the  fussiness  of  an  old  bachelor  of  houeskeeping 
tastes—"  I  admit  that  I  thought  the  old  woman  was  trying 
it  on  at  first.  But  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  had 
told  a  true  story  from  the  start.  When  she  gave  her 
evidence  at  your  trial  she  thought  you  were— the  man." 

"There's  nothing  surprising  in  that.  They  almost  made 
me  think  so,  too." 

"  It  did  look  fishy,  my  friend.  You  won't  mind  my  saymg 
that  much.  Clearer  heads  than  your  jury  of  village  store- 
keepers and  Adirondack  farmers  might  have  given  the  same 
verdict.  But  old  lady  Gramm's  responsibility  hadn't  be- 
gun then.  It  was  a  matter  of  two  or  three  years  before  she 
came  to  see— as  women  do  see  things  about  the  men  they 
live  with-that  the  hand  which  did  the  job  was  Jacob's. 
By  that  time  you  had  disappeared  into  space,  and  she 
didn't  feel  bound  to  give  the  old  chap  away.  She  says  she 
would  have  done  it  if  it  could  have  saved  you;  but  since  you 
had  s.ived  yourself,  she  confined  her  attentions  to  shieldmg 
Jacob      You  may  credit  as  much  or  as  little  of  that  as  you 


11 


THE        H^  I  L   D        OLIVE 

please;  but  I  believe  the  bulk  of  it.  In  iny  case,  since  it 
does  the  trick  for  us  we  have  no  reason  to  complain.  Com* 
now!" 

"  ''m  not  going  to  complain  of  anything.  It's  been  a 
rum  experience  all  through,  but  I  can't  say  that,  in  certain 
aspects,  I  haven't  enjoyed  it.  I  have  enjoyed  it.  If  it 
weren't  for  the  necessity  of  deceiving  people  who  arc 
decent  to  you,  I'd  go  through  it  all  again." 

"That's  game,"  Conquest  said,  approvingly,  as  he 
worked  round  to  the  hearth-rug,  where  he  stood  cutting 
the  end  of  a  cigar,  with  Ford's  long  figure  stretched  out 
obliquely  before  him. 

"I  would,"  Ford  assured  him.  "I'd  go  through  it  all 
again,  like  a  shot.  It's  been  a  lark  from— I  won't  say  from 
itart  to  finish— but  certainly  from  the  minute— let  me  see 
just  when!— certainly  from  the  minute  when  Miss  Strange 
beckoned  to  me,  over  old  Wayne's  shoulder." 

An  odd  look  came  by  degrees  into  Conquest's  ''ace— the 
look  of  pitying  amusement  with  which  one  listens  to  queer 
things  said  by  some  one  in  delirium.  He  kept  the  cutter 
fixed  in  the  end  of  the  cigar,  too  much  astonished  to  com- 
plete his  task. 
"Since  Miss  Strange  did — what?" 
Ford  was  too  deeply  absorbed  in  his  own  meditations  to 
notice  the  tone. 

"I  mean,  since  she  pulled  me  through." 
Conquest's  face  broke  into  a  broad  smile. 
"Are  you  dreaming,  old  chap?    Or  have  you  'got  'em 
again '  ?" 

"I'm  going  '.ck  in  the  story,"  Ford  explamed,  with  a 
hint  of  impatience.  "I'm  talking  about  the  night  when 
xVliss  Strange  saved  me." 

30J 


THE        fr  ^    L   D        O   L   I  r  E 


I,  i, 


\  i  if 


H 


y        :i| 


"MiM  Strange  nred  }-onf    How?" 

Ford  railed  himulf  ilowly  in  hit  chiir,  hit  long  legs 
ttretched  out  itnight  before  him,  ind  his  body  bent  itiffly 
forward,  as  he  stared  up  at  C)nqu':st,  in  puzzled  interroga- 
tion. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  asked,  incredulously,  "that 
■he  hasn't  told  you — thatf" 

"  Perhaps  you'll  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  yourself.  Ill 
be  hanged  if  I  know  what  you're  talking  about." 

There  was  suppressed  irritation  in  the  way  in  which  he 
tore  off  the  end  of  the  cigar  and  struck  a  match.  Ford 
let  himself  sink  back  into  the  chair  again. 

"So  she  never  told  youl  By  George,  that's  like  her! 
It's  just  what  I  might  have  expected." 

"Look  here,"  Conquest  said,  shar-'v,  "did  you  know 
Miss  Strange  before  you  came  up  here  from  South  Amer- 
ica ?"  He  stood  with  his  cigar  unlighted,  for  he  had  let 
the  match  burn  down  to  his  fingers  before  attempting  to 
apply  it.  "Was  your  taking  the  name  of  Strange,"  he  de- 
manded, with  sudden  inspiration,  "merely  an  accident,  at 
I've  supposed  it  wa--  -or  had  it  anything  to  do  with 
her  ?" 

"It  wasn't  an  accident,  and  it  did  have  something  to  do 
with  her." 

"Just  sol    And  you  kept  it  dark!" 

Something  in  Conquest's  intonation  caused  Ford  to  look 
up.  He  saw  a  man  with  face  suddenly  growing  gray,  as 
though  a  light  had  gont  out  of  it.  He  was  disturbed  only 
to  the  point  of  feeling  that  he  had  spoken  »'ctlessly,  and 
proceeded  to  repair  the  error. 

"I  kept  it  dark  for  obvious  reasons.     If  Miss  Strange 
didn't  tell  you  about  it,  it's  because  she  isn't  the  kind  of 
3°4 


THE        fr  I  L   D        O   L   I  r  B 

penon  to  ulk  of  an  incident  in  which  her  own  pan  wai  m 
noble,     ni  give  you  the  whole  itory  now." 

"I  should  be  obliged  to  you,"  Cbnquett  laid,  dryly. 

He  lat  down  on  the  very  edge  of  one  of  the  big  arm- 
chain,  leaning  forward,  and  fingering  his  still  unlighted 
cigar  nervously,  as  he  watched  Ford  puff  out  successive 
rings  of  smoke  before  beginning.  He  was  less  on  his  guard 
to  screen  the  intenseness  with  which  he  listened,  because 
Ford  spoke  at  first  in  a  dreamy  way,  without  looking  in  hit 
direction. 

With  more  insij^ht  into  the  circumstances  surrounding 
him  Ford  would  have  told  his  tale  with  greater  reticence. 
As  it  was  he  spoke  with  enthusiasm,  an  enthusiasm  born  of 
an  honest  desire  that  Conquest  should  see  the  woman  he 
was  about  to  marry  in  the  full  beauty  of  her  character.  In 
regard  to  this  he  himself  had  made  the  discovery  so  slowly 
and  so  recently  that  h<-  wa^  ai.iiKuted  by  something  like  a 
convert's  zeal.  Beginning  his  narrative  quietly,  in  a  remi- 
niscent vein,  with  intervals  in  which  he  lapsed  altogether 
into  meditation,  he  was  presently  fired  with  all  the  anima- 
tion in  a  story-teller  when  he  perceives  he  is  holding  his 
hearer  spellbound.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  moved  not 
to  much  by  the  desire  of  convincing  Conquest  of  Miriam 
Strange 's  nobility,  as  by  the  impulse  to  do  her  justice,  once 
in  his  life  at  least,  in  language  of  his  own. 

It  was  a  naive  bit  of  eloquence,  of  which  no  detail  wat 
lost  on  the  experienced  man  of  the  world,  who  sat  twirling 
his  cigar  with  nervous  fingers,  his  eyes  growing  keener  in 
proportion  as  his  face  became  more  gray.  It  was  ,.  of 
his  professional  acquirement  to  be  able  to  draw  his  deduc- 
tions from  some  snatch  of  human  drama  as  he  listenr.'  to 
Its  unfolding.  His  quickness  and  accuracy  of  judgment 
3°5 


THE 


WILD 


OLIVE 


I   I 


\\    i! 


had,  indeed,  been  a  large  element  in  his  success;  so  that 
the  habit  of  years  enabled  him  to  preserve  a  certain  calm- 
ness of  comprehension  now.  It  lost  nothing  in  being  a 
studied  calmness,  since  the  forcing  of  his  faculties  within 
restraint  concentrated  their  acumen. 

Ford  concluded  with  what  for  him  was  an  almost  lyric 
outburst. 

"By  George!  Conquest,  I  didn't  know  there  were  such 
women  in  the  world.  She's  been  a  revelation  to  me — as 
art  and  religion  are  revelations  to  other  people.  She  came 
to  me  as  the  angel  came  to  Peter  in  the  prison;  but,  like 
Peter,  I  didn't  know  it  was  an  angel.  There's  a  sort  of 
glory  about  her — a  glory  which  it  takes  a  higher  sense  than 
any  I've  got  to  see  and  understand.  After  all  she's  done 
for  me — after  all  this  time — I'm  only  now  beginning  to  get 
glimpses  of  it;  but  it's  merely  as  we  get  glimpses  of  an  in- 
finite beyond,  because  we  see  the  stars.  She's  a  mystery 
to  me,  in  the  same  way  that  genius  is  a  mystery,  or  holiness. 
I  didn't  appreciate  her  because  I  hadn't  the  soul,  and  yet 
it's  in  seeing  that  I  hadn't  the  soul  that  I  begin  to  get  it. 
That's  curious,  isn't  it  ?  She's  like  some  heavenly  spirit 
that's  passed  by  me,  and  touched  me  into  newness  of 
life." 

His  ardor  was  so  sincere,  his  hymn  of  praise  so  spon- 
taneous, that  he  expected  some  sort  of  echo  back.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  even  if  Conquest  did  not  join  in  this  chant  in 
honor  of  the  woman  who  presumably  loved  him,  whom  more 
presumably  still  he  loved,  it  would  be  but  natural  for  him 
to  applaud  it.  Ford  knew  that  if  any  one  else  had  sung  of 
Miriam  Strange  as  he  had  just  been  inging,  he  would  have 
leaped  to  his  feet  and  wrung  the  man's  ,•■  nd  till  it  ached. 
It  surprised  him,  therefore,  it  disappointed  him,  that  Con- 
306 


T  H    -2 W_  I  L   D        OLIVE 

quest  sh  -ul  !  sit  urm  ved,  unless  the  spark-like  twinkle  of 


\a»  little 


''  be  taken  as  emotion. 


It  was  a  relief  to  Conquest  to  get  up,  scratch  another 
natch,  and  light  his  cigar  at  last,  turning  his  back  so  that 
it  should  not  be  seen  that  his  fingers  trembled.  When  he 
was  sure  of  himself  he  faced  about  again,  taking  his  seat. 

"It's  the  most  amazing  story  I  ever  heard,"  was  his  only 
comment,  in  response  to  Ford's  look  of  expectation. 

"I  hoped  it  might  strike  you  as  something  more  than — 
amazing,"  Ford  ventured,  after  a  minute's  waiting  for  a 
more  appreciative  word. 

"Perhaps  it  will  when  I  get  my  breath.  You  must  give 
me  time  for  that.  Do  you  actually  tell  me  that  she  kept 
you  in  her  studio  for  weeks —  ?" 

"Three  weeks  and  four  days,  to  be  exact." 

"And  that  she  furnished  you  with  food  and  clothing — ?" 

"And  money — but  I  paid  that  back." 

"And  got  you  away  in  that  ingenious  fashion — ?" 

"Just  as  I've  told  you." 

"Amazing!  Simply  amazing!  And,"  he  added,  with 
some  bitterness,  "you  came  back  here — and  you  and  she 
together — took  us  all  in." 

Ford  drew  his  cigar  from  his  lips,  and,  turning  in  his 
chair,  faced  Conquest  in  an  attitude  and  with  a  look  which 
could  not  be  misinterpreted. 

"I  came  back  here,  and  took  you  all  in — if  you  like. 
Miss  Strange  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  She  didn't  even 
expect  me." 

The  last  sentence  gave  Conquest  the  opening  he  was 

looking  for,  but  now  that  he  had  it,  he  hesitated  to  make 

use  of  it.     In  his  memory  were  the  very  words  Miriam 

Strange  had  stammered  out  to  him  in  the  sort  of  confession 

307 


THE        WILD        0    L   1    F  E 


n 


m 


11 


W: 


I  ! 


BO  woman  ever  makes  willingly:  "Things  happened  .  .  . 
Mich  as  don't  generally  happen  .  .  .  and  even  if  he  ncTcr 
comes  ...  I'd  rather  go  on  waiting  for  him  .  .  .  uselessly." 
It  was  all  growing  clear  to  him,  and  yet  not  so  clear  but  that 
there  was  time  even  now  to  let  the  matter  drop  into  the 
limbo  of  things  it  is  best  not  to  know  too  much  about.  It 
was  against  his  better  judgi.ient,  then — his  better  judgment 
IS  a  barrister-at-law — that  he  found  himself  saying: 

"She  didn't  expect  you  at  that  day  and  date,  perhaps: 
but  she  probably  looked  for  you  some  time." 

"Possibly;    but  if  so,  I  know  little  or  nothing  about  it.' 

The  reply,  delivered  with  a  certain  dignified  force  oi 
intention,  recalled  Conquest  to  a  sense  of  his  own  interest*. 
He  had  too  ofti_n  counselled  his  clients  to  let  sleeping  dogy 
lie,  not  to  be  aware  of  the  advantage  of  doing  it  himself; 
and  so,  restraining  his  jealous  curiosity,  he  turned  the  con- 
versation back  to  the  evidence  of  Amalia  Gramm. 

During  the  next  half-hour  he  manifested  that  talent — 
partly  native  and  partly  born  of  practice — ^which  he  had 
often  commended  in  himself,  of  talking  about  one  thin( 
and  thinking  of  another.  His  exposition  of  the  line  to  be 
adopted  in  Ford's  defence  was  perfectly  lucid,  when  aO 
the  while  he  was  saying  to  himself  that  this  was  the  man 
whom  Miriam  Strange  had  waited  for  through  eight 
romantic  years. 

The  fact  leaped  at  him,  but  it  was  part  of  his  profession 
■ot  to  be  afraid  of  facts.  If  they  possessed  adverse  qualities 
one  recognized  them  boldly,  in  the  practise  of  law,  chiefly 
with  a  view  of  circumventing  them.  The  matter  presented 
itself  first  of  all,  not  as  one  involving  emotional  or  moral 
iuues,  but  as  an  annoying  arrangement  of  circumstances 
whicli  might  cheat  him  out  of  what  he  had  honestly  ac- 
308 


THE        WILD        O   L   I   r  £ 

quired.  He  had  no  intention  of  being  cheated  by  any  on« 
whatever;  and  as  he  made  a  rapid  summary  of  the  points 
of  the  case  he  saw  that  the  balance  of  probabilities  was  in 
hit  favor.  It  was  to  make  that  clear  to  Ford  that  he  led 
the  conversation  back  again  to  the  subject  of  his  adventures, 
temptmg  him  to  repeat  at  least  a  portion  of  his  hymn  of 
praise.  By  the  time  he  had  finished  it  Conquest  was  able 
to  resume  the  friendly,  confidential  tone  with  which  they 
had  begun  the  evening. 

"It's  very  satisfactory  to  me,  old  man,"  he  said,  between 
quiet  puffs  at  his  cigar,  "to  know  that  you  think  so  highly 
of  Miss  Strange,  because— I  don't  know  whether  you  have 
heard  it— she  and  I  are  to  be  married  before  long." 

He  looked  to  see  Ford  disconcerted  by  this  announce- 
ment, and  was  surprised  to  see  him  take  it  coolly. 

Yes;    I  knew  that.     I've  meant  to  congratulate  you 
when  the  time  came.     I  should  say  it  had  come  now." 

There  was  a   candor  about  him  that  Conquest  could 
•carcely  discredit,  though  he  was  unwilling  to  trust  it  too  far. 
"Thanks,  old  man.     I  scarcely  expected  you  to  be  so 
well  posted.     May  I  ask  how—  I" 

"Oh,  I've  known  it  a  long  time.  Miss  Strange  told  me 
before  I  went  to  South  America  last  spring." 

This  evidence  of  a  confidential  relation  between  the  two 
gave  him  a  second  shock,  but  he  postponed  its  consideration, 
contenting  himself  for  the  moment  with  making  it  plain  to 
Ford  that  "Hands  offi"  must  be  the  first  rule  of  the  game. 
His  next  move  was  meant  to  cany  the  play  into  the  op- 
ponent's quarters. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I've  never  congratulated  you,"  he 
«wd,  with  apparent  tranquillity.     "I've  known  about  yom 
«nd  Evie  for  some  time  past,  but — " 
309 


THE        WILD        O   L   I   F  E 


.  lilt 


"Oh,  that's  all  off.  In  the  existing  circumstances  Erie 
didn't  feel  like — keeping  the  thing  up." 

"That's  too  bad.  You've  been  pretty  hard  hit — what? 
When  a  fellow  is  as  game  as  you  a  girl  should  stand  by  him, 
come  now!  But  I  know  Evie.  I've  known  her  from  her 
cradle.  She'll  back  round,  you'll  see.  When  we've  pulled 
you  through,  as  we're  going  to,  she'll  take  another  view  of 
things.  I  know  for  a  fact  that  she's  been  head  over  heels 
in  love  with  you  ever  since  her  trip  to  Buenos  Aires." 

As  Ford  made  no  remark,  Conquest  felt  it  well  to  drive 
the  point  home. 

"We  can  all  help  in  that,  old  boy;  and  you  can  count  on 
us — both  on  Miss  Strange  and  me.  No  one  has  such  in- 
fluence over  Evie  as  Miriam,  and  I  inow  she's  very  keen 
on  seeing  you  and  her — you  and  Evie,  I  mean — hit  it  off. 
I  don't  mind  telling  you  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it's  been 
Miriam's  ani:iety  on  Evie's  account  that  has  mixed  me  up 
in  your  case  at  all.  I  don't  say  that  I  haven't  got  interested 
in  you  for  your  own  sake;  but  it  was  she  who  stirred  me 
up  in  the  first  place.  It's  going  to  mean  a  lot  to  her  to  see 
you  get  through — and  marry  Evie." 

Ford  smiled — his  odd,  twisted  smile — but  as  he  said 
nothing,  Conquest  decided  to  let  the  subject  drop.  He 
had,  in  fact,  gone  as  far  as  his  present  judgment  would 
carry  him,  and  anything  farther  might  lead  to  a  false  step. 
In  a  situation  alive  with  claims  and  counter-claims,  with 
yearnings  of  the  heart  and  rromptings  of  the  higher  law, 
he  could  preserve  his  rights  only  by  a  walk  as  wary  as  the 
treading  of  a  tight-rope. 

This  became  clearer  to  him  later  in  the  night,  when  Ford 
had  gone  away,  and  he  was  left  free  to  review  the  circum- 
stances with  that  clarity  of  co-ordination  he  had  so  often 
310 


r  HE        WILD        OLIVE 

brought  to  bear  on  other  men's  affairs.  Out  ot  the  mass  of 
data  he  selected  two  conditions  as  being  the  only  ones  of 
importance. 

If  Miriam  Strange  was  marrying  him  because  she  loved 
him,  nothing  else  needed  to  be  considered.  This  fact  would 
subordinate  everything  to  itself;  and  there  were  many  argu- 
ments to  support  the  assumption  that  she  was  doing  so. 
One  by  one  he  marshalled  them  before  him,  from  the  first 
faint  possibility  up  to  the  crowning  proof  that  there  was  no 
earthly  reason  for  her  marrying  him  at  ail,  unless  she 
wanted  to.  He  had  pointed  that  out  to  her  clearly,  on  the 
day  when  she  came  to  him  to  make  her  terms.  He  had 
been  guilty  on  that  occasion  of  a  foolish  generosity,  for  that 
it  went  with  a  common-sense  honesty  to  take  advantage 
of  another's  ignorance,  or  impulsiveness,  was  part  of  hi* 
business  creed.  Nevertheless,  having  shown  her  this  un- 
called-for favor,  he  did  not  regret  it  now,  since  it  put  the 
spontaneous,  voluntary  nature  of  her  act  beyond  dispute. 

To  a  late  hour  of  the  night  he  wandered  about  the  great 
silent  rooms  of  the  house  which  he  had  made  the  expression 
of  himself.  Stored  with  costly,  patiently  selected  comforts, 
it  lacked  only  the  last  requisite  which  was  to  impart  the 
living  touch.  Having  chosen  this  essential  with  so  much 
care,  and  begun  to  feel  for  her  something  far  more  vital 
than  the  pride  of  possession  which  had  been  his  governing 
emotion  hitherto,  it  was  an  agony  with  many  aspects  to 
think  he  might  have  to  let  her  go. 

That  there  was  this  possibility  was  undeniable.  It  wa« 
the  second  of  the  two  paramount  considerations.  Though 
Ford's  enthusiasm  tried  to  make  itself  enthusiasm  and  no 
more,  there  had  been  little  difficulty  in  seeing  what  it  was. 
All  the  same,  it  would  be  a  passion  to  pity  and  ignore,  if  on 
3" 


I   . 


THE        fF  I  L   D        O    L   I  y  E 

Miriam's  side  there  was  nothing  to  respond  to  it.  But  it 
was  here  that,  in  spite  of  all  his  arguments,  Conquest's 
doubts  began.  With  much  curious  ignorance  of  women, 
there  was  a  point  of  view  from  which  he  knew  them  well. 
It  was  out  of  many  a  poignant  bit  of  domestic  histonr,  of 
which  his  profession  had  made  him  the  confidant,  that  he 
had  distilled  the  observation  made  to  Ford  earlier  in  the 
evening:  "It  isn't  often  that  a  woman's  heroism  works  in 
a  straight  line,  like  a  soldier's  or  a  fireman's."  Notwith- 
Manding  her  directness,  he  could  see  Miriam  Strange  ai 
just  the  type  of  woman  to  whom  these  words  might  be  ap- 
plicable. If  by  marrying  a  man  whom  she  did  not  love  she 
thought  she  could  help  another  whom  she  did  love,  a  culp- 
able sacrifice  was  just  the  thing  of  which  she  would  be 
capable.  He  called  it  culpable  sacrifice  with  some  em- 
phasis, for  in  his  eyes  all  sacrifice  was  culpable.  It  wat 
more  than  culpable,  in  that  it  verged  on  the  absurd.  There 
were  few  teachings  of  an  illogical  religion,  few  promptings 
of  a  misdirected  energy,  for  which  he  had  a  greater  scorn 
than  the  precept  that  the  strong  should  suffer  for  the  weak, 
or  one  man  for  another.  Every  man  for  himself  and  the 
•urvival  of  the  fittest  was  the  doctrine  by  which  he  lived; 
and  his  abhorrence  of  anything  else  was  the  more  intense 
for  the  moment  because  he  found  himself  in  a  situation 
where  he  might  be  expected  to  repudiate  his  faith. 

But  there  it  was,  that  something  in  public  opinion  which, 
m  certain  circumstances,  might  challenge  him— might  ask 
him  for  magnanimity,  might  appeal  to  him  for  mercy,  might 
demand  that  he  make  two  other  human  beings  happy  while 
he  denied  himself.  It  was  preposterous,  it  was  grotesque, 
but  it  was  there.  He  could  hear  its  voice  already,  explain- 
ing that  since  Miriam  Strange  had  given  him  her  word  k 
312 


V^ 


THE 


fr  I  L    D        OLIVE 


an  excess  of  self-devotion,  it  was  his  duty  to  let  her  off.  He 
could  see  the  line  of  argument;  he  could  hear  the  applauK 
following  on  his  noble  act.  He  had  heard  it  before — 
especially  in  the  theatre  —  and  his  soul  had  shaken  with 
laughter.  He  had  read  of  it  in  novels,  only  to  toss  such 
books  aside.  "The  beauty  of  renunciation,"  he  had  often 
laid,  "appeals  to  the  morbid,  the  sickly,  and  the  sentimental. 
It  has  no  function  among  the  healthy  and  the  sane."  He 
had  not  only  said  that,  but  he  had  believed  it.  He  believed  it 
still,  and  lived  by  it.  By  doing  so  he  had  amassed  his 
modest  fortune  and  won  a  respected  position  in  the  world. 
He  had  not  got  on  into  middle  life  without  meeting  the 
occasion  more  than  once  when  he  could  have  saved  others 
— a  brother,  or  a  sister,  or  a  friend — and  forborne  to  save 
himself.  He  had  felt  the  temptation  and  resisted  it,  with 
the  result  that  he  was  up  in  the  world  when  he  might  have 
been  down  in  it,  and  envied  by  those  who  would  have 
despised  him  without  hesitation  when  they  had  got  out  of 
him  all  he  could  give.  He  could  look  back  now  and  see  the 
folly  it  would  have  been  had  he  yielded  to  impulses  that 
erery  sentimentalist  would  have  praised.  He  was  fully 
conscious  that  the  moment  of  danger  might  be  on  the  point 
of  returning  again,  and  that  he  must  be  prepared  for  it. 

He  was  able  to  strengthen  himself  with  the  greater  con- 
viction because  of  his  belief  in  the  sanctity  of  rights.  The 
(ccuring  of  rights,  the  defining  of  rights,  the  protection  of 
rights,  had  been  his  trad^  ever  since  he  was  twenty-five. 
The  invasion  of  rights  was  among  the  darkest  crimes  in  his 
calendar.  In  the  present  case  his  own  rights  could  not  be 
oiled  into  question;  they  were  inviolable.  Miriam  Strange 
had  come  to  him  deliberately,  and  for  due  consideration 
had  signed  herself  away.  He  had  spared  nothing,  in  time, 
3"3 


m 

fi 


THE        fF  I  L   D        OLIVE 


m'\M 


A   4  VI! 
'I    !:ii 


pains,  or  money,  to  fulfil  his  part  of  the  compact.  It  would 
be  monstrous,  therefore,  if  he  were  to  be  cheated  of  hii 
reward.  That  either  Ford  or  Miriam  would  attempt  this 
he  did  not  believe,  even  if  between  them  the  worst,  from  his 
point  of  view,  was  at  the  worst;  but  that  an  absurd,  elusive 
principle  which  called  itself  chivalry,  but  really  was  effem- 
inacy of  will,  might  try  to  disarm  him  by  an  appeal  to 
scruples  he  contemned,  was  the  possibility  he  feared.  He 
feared  it  because  he  estimated  at  its  worth  the  force  of 
restraint  a  sentimental  civilization  and  a  naive  people  can 
bring  to  beat,  in  silent  pressure,  upon  the  individual.  While 
he  knew  himself  to  be  strong  in  his  power  of  resistance,  he 
knew  too  that  the  mightiest  swimmer  can  go  down  at  last 
in  a  smiling,  unrippled  sea. 

His  exasperation  was  as  much  with  his  doubt  about  him- 
self as  with  the  impalpable  forces  threatening  him,  as  he 
strode  fiercely  from  room  to  room,  turning  out  the  flaring 
lights  before  going  to  bed.  After  all,  his  final  resolutions 
were  pitifully  insufficient,  in  view  of  the  tragic  element — 
for  he  took  it  tragically— that  had  suddenly  crept  into  his 
life.  While  his  gleam  of  happiness  was  in  danger  of  going 
out,  the  sole  means  he  could  find  of  keeping  it  aglow  was  in 
deciding  on  a  prudent  ignoring  of  whatever  did  not  meet 
the  eye,  on  a  discreet  assumption  that  what  he  had  been 
dreaming  for  the  past  few  months  was  true.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  there  was  nothing  to  show  him  that  it  wa.-in't  true; 
and  it  was  only  common  sense  to  let  the  fir.st  move  toward 
clearing  his  vision  come  from  the  other  side  rather  than 
from  his. 

And  yet  it  was  precisely  this  passive  attitude  which  he 
found  himself  next  day  least  able  to  maintain.     If  he  needed 
iiiything  further  to  teach  him  that  love  was  love,  it  was  this 
3'4 


THE        WILD         OLIVE 

restless,  pryl  .g  jealousy,  making  it  impossible  to  let  well 
enough  al^ne.  After  a  trying  day  at  the  office,  during 
which  Ke  irritated  his  partners  and  worried  his  clerks,  he 
presented  h-niself  late  in  the  afternoon  at  Miriam's  apart- 
ment at  the  hour  when  he  generally  went  to  his  club,  and 
he  knew  she  would  not  expect  him.  Thinking  to  surprise 
Ford  with  her— like  the  suspicious  husband  in  a  French 
play,  he  owned  to  himself,  grimly— he  experienced  some- 
thing akin  to  disappointment  to  find  her  drinking  tea  with 
two  old  ladies,  whom  he  outstayed.  During  the  ceremonies 
of  their  leave-taking  he  watched  Miriam  closely,  seeking 
for  some  impossible  proof  that  she  either  loved  Ford  or  did 
not  love  him,  and  getting  nothing  but  a  renewed  and  mad- 
dening conviction  of  her  grace  and  quiet  charm. 

"What  about  Evie's  happiness?" 
Miriam  raised  her  eyebrows  inquiringly  at  the  question 
before  stooping  to  put  out  the  spirit-lamp. 
"Well,      hat   about   it.?"  she   asked,  without   looking 

"''.■. 

"Oh,  nothing— except  that  we  don't  seem  to  be  secur- 
ing it." 

She  gazed  at  him  now,  with  an  expression  frankly  puz- 
zled. He  had  refused  tea,  but  she  kept  her  accustomed 
place  behind  the  tea-table,  while  he  stretched  himself  com- 
fortably in  the  low  arm-chair  by  the  hearth,  which  she 
often  occupied  herself. 

"  Don't  you  remember  ?"  he  went  on.  "  Evie's  happiness 
wa?  the  motive  of  our  little — agreement." 

He  endeavored  to  make  his  tone  playful,  but  there  was  a 
something  sharp  and  aggressive  in  his  manner,  »t  which 
she  colored  slightly,  no  less  than  at  his  words. 
315 


THE       WILD        0  L  I  r  E 

"I  iuppoie,"  she  laid,  u  if  «fte»  mediutioo,  "ETii'i 
happinesi  isn't  in  our  handi." 

"True;  but  there'i  a  good  deal  that  it  in  our  handi. 
There's,  for  example — our  own." 

"Up  to  a  point — yes." 

"And  up  to  that  point  we  should  take  care  of  it.  Shouldn't 

we  ?" 

"I  dare  say.     But  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

He  gave  the  nervous  little  laugh  which  helped  him  orer 
moments  of  embarrassment. 

"Ford  was  with  me  last  night.  He  said  it  was  all  off 
be' .Tsen  him  and  Evie." 

"  \  ihought  he  might  tell  you  that." 

"So  that,"  he  went  on,  forcing  a  smile,  with  which  his 
voice  and  manner  were  not  in  accord,  "our  undertakmg 
having  failed,  the  bottom's  out  of  everything.     Don't  you 

?,, 
... 
She  was  so  astonished  that  she  walked  into  his  trap,  just 

as  he  expected. 

"  I  don't  see  in  the  least.  I  thought  our  undertaking— 
as  you  call  it— was  going  to  be  particularly  successful." 

"  Successful — how  ?" 

He  dropped  his  snile  and  looked  interrogative,  his  bit 
of  acting  still  keeping  her  off  her  guard. 

"Why,  if  Amalia  Gramm's  testimony  is  all  you  think  it'» 
going  to  be — " 

"Oh,  I  see.    That's  the  way  you  look  at  it." 

"  Isn't  it  the  way  you  look  at  it,  too  ?" 

He  smiled  again,  indulgently,  but  with  significance. 

"No;  I  confess  it  isn't—at  least,  it  hasn't  been.  I  thought 
— perhaps  I  was  wrong— that  our  interest  was  in  gettmg 
Ford  off,  so  that  he  could  marry  Evie.  Since  he  isn't  going 
316 


ur^ 


THE        H^  I   L  D        OLIVE 


to  many  her,  why — naturally — we  don't  care  lo  mucb— 
whether  he  gets  off  or  not." 

"Oh,  but—" 

She  checked  herself;  she  even  grew  a  little  pale.  She 
began  to  see  dimly  whither  he  was  leading  her. 

"Of  course  I  don't  say  we  should  chuck  him  over,"  he 
went  on;  "but  it  isn't  the  same  thing  any  longer,  is  it  ?  I 
think  it  only  fair  to  point  that  out  to  you,  because  it  gives 
you  reasonable  ground  for  reconsidering  your — decision." 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  want  to." 

While  she  had  said  exactly  what  he  hoped  to  hear,  she 
had  not  said  it  as  he  hoped  to  hear  it.  There  were  shades 
of  tone  even  to  impetuosity,  and  this  one  lacked  the  note 
his  ear  was  listening  for.  None  the  less,  he  told  himself, 
a  wise  man  would  have  stopped  right  there;  and  he  was 
conscious  of  his  folly  in  persisting,  while  he  still  persisted. 

"That's  for  you  to  decide,  of  course.  Only  if  we  go  on, 
it  must  be  understood  that  we've  somewhat  shifted  our 
ground." 

"I  haven't  shifted  mine." 

"Not  as  you  understand  it  yourself — as,  possibly,  you've 
understood  it  all  along.  But  you  h?"<!,  as  I  see  things. 
When  you  came  to  me — to  my  office — " 

She  put  up  her  hand  as  though  she  would  have  screened 
her  face,  but  controlled  herself  to  listen  quietly. 

"Your  object,  then,"  Conquest  continued,  cruelly,  "was 
to  get  Ford  off,  so  that  he  might  marry  Evie.  Now,  I 
understand  it  to  be  simply — to  get  him  off." 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  full  of  distress  or  protest. 
It  was  a  minute  or  two  before  she  spoke. 

"I  don't  see  the  necessity  for  such  close  definition." 

"I  do.  I  want  you  to  know  exactly  what  you're  doing. 
11  317 


THE 


WILD        O   LIVE 


liir, 


"il 


I      \ 


I  want  you  to  »ee  that  you're  paying  a  higher  price  than 
you  need  pay— for  the  lervicei  rendered." 

He  had  got  her  now  just  where  he  had  been  trying  to 
put  her.  He  had  snared  her,  or  given  her  an  opportunity, 
according  as  she  chose  to  talce  it.  She  could  have  availed 
herself  of  the  Utter  by  a  look  or  a  simple  intonation,  for 
the  craving  of  his  hean  was  such  that  his  perceptions  were 
acute  for  the  slightest  hint.  Had  she  known  that,  it  would 
have  been  easy  for  her  to  respond  to  him,  playing  her  part 
with  the  loyalty  with  which  she  had  begun  it.  As  it  was, 
his  cold  mann.r  and  his  slightly  mocking  tone  betrayed  her. 
Her  answer  was  meant  to  give  him  the  kind  of  assurance 
she  thought  he  was  looking  for;  and  she  couched  it  in  the 
language  she  supposed  he  would  most  easily  understand 
In  the  things  it  said  and  did  not  say  her  very  sincenty  wa! 
what  stabbed  him. 

"I  hope  it  won't  be  necessary  to  bring  this  subject  uj 
again.  I  know  what  I  undertook,  and  I'm  anxious  t. 
fulfil  it.  I  should  be  very  much  hurt  if  I  wasn't  allowed  to 
just  because  you  had  scruples  about  taking  me  at  my  word 
You've  been  so-so  splendid— in  doing  your  part  that 
should  feel  humilia"d  if  I  didn't  do  mine." 

There  was  earnestness  in  her  regard  and  a  suggestion  o 
haughtiness  in  the  tilt  of  her  head.  The  Wise  Man  with, 
him  bade  him  be  content,  and  this  time  he  listened  to  th 
voice.  He  did  her  the  justice  to  remember,  too,  that  sh 
was  offering  him  all  he  had  ever  asked  of  her;  and  if  he  wi 
dissatisfied,  it  was  because  he  had  increased  his  demant 
without  telling  her. 

It  was  by  a  transition  of  topic  that  he  saw  he  could  nail  hi 
to  her  purpose. 

"By-the-way,"  he  said,  when  they  had  got  on  neutr 

3'8 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

ground  again,  and  wero  speaking  of  Wayne,  "I  wish  you 
would  come  and  see  what  I  think  of  doing  for  him.  There 
are  two  rooms  back  of  my  library — too  dark  for  my  use — 
but  that  wouldn't  matter  to  him,  poor  fellow — " 

He  saw  that  she  was  nerving  herself  not  to  flinch  at  this 
confrontation  with  the  practical.  He  saw  too  that  her 
courage  and  her  self-command  would  have  deceived  any 
one  but  him.  The  very  pluck  with  which  she  nodded  her 
comprehension  of  his  idea,  and  her  sympathy  with  it, 
enraged  him  to  a  pomt  at  which,  so  it  seemed  to  him,  he 
could  have  struck  her.  Had  she  cried  off  from  her  bargain 
he  could  have  borne  it  far  more  easily.  That  would  at 
least  have  given  him  a  sense  of  superiority,  and  helped  hira 
to  be  magnanimous;  while  this  readiness  to  pay  put  him  in 
the  wrong,  and  drove  him  to  exact  the  uttermost  farthing 
of  his  rights.  On  a  weak  woman  he  might  have  taken 
pity;  but  this  strong  creature,  who  refused  to  sue  to  him 
by  so  much  as  the  quiver  of  an  eyelid,  and  rejected  his  con- 
cessions before  he  had  time  to  put  them  forth,  exasperated 
every  nerve  that  had  been  wont  to  tingle  to  his  sense  of 
power.  Since  she  had  asked  no  quarter,  why  should  he  give 
it? — above  all,  when  to  give  quarter  was  against  his 
principles. 

"And  perhaps,"  he  pursued,  in  an  even  voice,  showing  no 
sign  of  the  tempest  within,  "that  would  be  as  good  a  time 
as  any  for  you  to  look  over  the  entire  house.  If  there  are 
any  changes  you  would  like  to  have  made — " 

"I  don't  think  there  will  be." 

"All  the  same,  I  should  like  you  to  see.  A  man's  house, 
however  well  arranged,  isn't  always  right  for  a  woman's 
occupancy;    and  so — " 

"Very  well;    I'll  come." 

319 


THE        ff  I  L   D        OLIVE 


"When?" 

"I'll  come  to-morrow." 

"About  four?"  „ 

"Yes;  about  four.    That  would  suit  me  perfectly. 
She  s'poke  frankly,  and  even  smiled  faintly,  with  just 
such  a  shadow  of  a  blush  as  the  situation  called  for.    The 
Wise  Man  within  him  begged  him  once  more  to  be  content. 
If  the  Wise  Man  argued,  this  well-poised  serenity  was  not 
love,  it  was  something  so  like  it  that  the  distinction  would 
require  a  splitting  of  hairs.     Conquest  strove  to  listen  and 
obey;   but  even  as  l?e  did  so  he  was  aware  again  of  that 
rage  of  impotence  which  finds  its  easiest  outlet  m  violence. 
As  he  rose  to  take  his  leave,  with  all  the  outward  signs  of 
friendly  ceremoniousness,  he  had  time  to  be  appalled  at 
the  perception  that  he,  the  middle-aged,  spick-and-span 
New-Yorker,  should  so  fully  understand  how  it  is  that  a 
certain  type  of  frenzied  brute  can  kill  the  woman  whom  he 
passionately  loves,  but  who  is  hopelessly  out  of  reach. 


XXIV 


XCEPT  when  his  business  instincts  were  on 
the  alert,  Ford's  slowness  of  perception  was 
perhaps  most  apparent  in  his  judgment  of 
I  ]  character  and  his  analysis  of  other  people's 
J  motives.  Taking  men  and  women  as  he 
found  them,  he  had  little  tendency  to  speculate  as  to  the 
impulses  within  their  lives,  any  more  than  as  to  the  furnish- 
ings behind  their  house-fronts.  A  human  being  was  all 
exterior  to  him,  something  like  a  street.  Even  in  matters 
that  touched  him  closely,  the  .••ct  alone  was  his  concern; 
and  he  dealt  >vith  its  consequences,  without,  as  a  rule,  much 
inquisitive  probing  of  its  cause. 

So  when  Miriam  Strange  elected  to  marry  Conquest,  he 
accepted  the  settled  fnct,  for  the  time  being,  in  the  spirit  in 
which  he  would  have  taken  some  disastrous  manifestation 
of  natural  phenomena.  Investigation  of  the  motive  of 
such  a  step  was  as  little  in  his  line  as  it  would  have  been 
in  the  case  of  a  destructive  storm  at  sea.  To  his  essentially 
simple  way  of  viewing  life  it  was  something  to  be  lamented, 
but  to  b;;  borne  as  best  one  was  able,  while  one  said  as  little 
as  one  could  about  it. 

And  yet,  somewhere  in  the  wide,  rarely  explored  regions 
of  his  nature  there  were  wonderiiigs,  questionings,  yearn- 
ings, protests,  cries,  that  forced  themselves  to  the  surface 
now  and  then,  as  the  boiling  waters  within  the  earth  gush 
32» 


1 

■il 


I!  Ill' 


i 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

out  in  geyser  springs.  It  required  urgent  pressure  to  im- 
pel them  forth,  but  when  they  came  it  was  with  violence. 
Such  an  occasion  had  been  his  night  on  Lake  Champlain; 
such  another  was  the  evening  when  he  announced  to  Miriam 
his  intention  of  becoming  Norrie  Ford  again.  When  these 
moments  came  they  took  him  by  surprise,  even  though 
afterward  he  was  able  to  recognize  the  fact  that  they  had 
been  long  preparing. 

It  was  in  this  way,  without  warning,  that  his  heart  had 
sprung  on  him  the  question:  Why  should  she  marry  him  ? 
At  the  minute  when  Conquest  was  leaving  Miriam,  he. 
Ford,  was  tramping  the  streets  of  New  York,  watching  them 
grow  alive  with  light,  in  glaring,  imaginative  ugliness — 
ugliness  so  dazzling  in  its  audacity  and  so  fanciful  in  its 
crude  commercialism  that  it  had  the  power  to  thrill.  It 
was  perhaps  the  electric  stimulus  of  sheer  light  that  quick- 
ened the  pace  of  his  slow  mentality  from  the  march  of  ac- 
ceptance to  the  rush  of  protest,  at  an  instant  when  he  thought 
he  had  resigned  himself  to  the  facts. 

Why  should  she  marry  Conquest  ?  He  was  shouldering  his 
way  through  the  crowds  when  the  question  made  itself  heard, 
with  a  curious  illuminating  force  that  suggested  its  own 
answer.  He  was  walking,  partly  to  work  off  the  tension  of 
the  strain  under  which  these  few  days  were  passing,  and 
partly  because  he  had  got  the  idea  that  he  was  being  shad- 
owed. He  had  no  profound  objection  to  that,  though  he 
would  have  preferred  to  give  himself  up  of  his  own  free 
will  rather  than  to  be  arrested.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was 
only  an  accident  that  had  caused  him  to  catch  sight  of  the 
same  two  men  at  different  moments  through  the  day,  and 
just  now  it  amused  him  to  put  them  to  the  test  by  leading 
them  a  dance.  He  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had 
322 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

been  mistaken,  or  that  he  had  outwitted  them,  when  this 
odd  question,  irrelevant  to  anything  he  had  directly  in  his 
thoughts,  presented  itself  as  though  it  had  been  asked  by 
some  voice  outside  him:  Why  should  she  marry  him  ? 

Up  to  the  present  his  unanalytical  mind  would  have  re- 
plied— as  it  would  have  replied  to  the  same  query  concern- 
ing any  one  else — that  she  was  marrying  him  "because  she 
wanted  to."  That  would  have  seemed  to  him  to  cover  the 
whole  ground  of  any  one's  affairs;  but  all  at  once  it  had 
become  insufficient.  It  was  as  if  the  street  had  suddenly 
become  insufficient  as  a  highway,  breaking  into  a  chasm. 
He  stopped  abruptly,  confronting,  as  it  were,  that  bewilder- 
ing void  which  a  psychological  situation  invariably  seemed 
to  him.  To  get  into  a  place  where  his  few  straightforward 
formulae  did  not  apply  gave  him  that  sense  of  distress  which 
every  creature  feels  out  of  its  native  element. 

It  was  a  proof  of  the  dependence  with  which,  in  matters 
requiring  mental  or  emotional  experience,  he  had  come  to 
lean  on  Miriam  Strange,  as  well  as  of  the  directness  with 
which  he  appealed  to  her  for  help,  that  he  should  face  about 
on  the  instant,  and  turn  his  steps  toward  her. 

Only  a  few  minutes  earlier  she  had  seen  Conquest  go, 
and  in  the  interval  since  his  departure  she  had  had  time  to 
detect  the  windings  of  his  strategy,  and  to  be  content  with 
the  skill  with  which  she  had  met  them.  She  understood 
him  thoroughly,  both  in  his  fear  of  letting  her  go  and  his 
shame  at  holding  her.  Standing  in  her  wide  bay-window, 
her  slight  figure  erect,  her  hands  behind  her  back,  she 
looked  down,  without  seeing  it,  on  the  spangled  city,  as 
angels  intent  on  their  own  high  thoughts  might  pass  over 
the  Milky  Way.     She  smiled  faintly  to  herself,  thinking 


'I      : 

1!      ''    111 


ISfr. 


ft 


THE        WILD        O   L    I   V  & 

how  she  should  lead  this  kindly  man,  who  for  her  sake  had 
done  so  much  for  Norrie  Ford,  back  to  a  sense  of  security 
and  self-respect.  When  Norrie  Ford  went  free  she  meant 
to  live  for  nothing  else  but  the  happiness  of  the  nr.an  who 
had  cleared  his  name  and  given  him  back  to  the  world. 
It  would  be  a  kind  of  consecration  to  her,  like  that  of  the 
nun  who  forsakes  the  dearest  ties  for  a  life  of  good  works 
and  prayer.  Conquest  had  told  her  that  she  was  paying  a 
bigger  price  than  she  needed  to  pay  for  the  services  rendered, 
but  that  depended  somewhat  on  the  value  one  set  on  the 
services.  In  this  «^se  she  would  not  have  been  content 
in  paying  less.  To  do  so  would  seem  to  indicate  that  she 
was  not  grateful.  Since  perceiving  his  compunction  as  to 
claiming  his  reward,  she  was  aware  of  an  elation,  an  exalta- 
tion, in  forcing  it  upon  him. 

She  was  in  the  glow  of  this  sentiment  when  Ford  was 
ushered  in.  He  was  so  vitally  in  her  thoughts  that,  though 
she  did  not  expect  him,  his  presence  gave  her  no  surprise. 
It  helped  her,  in  fact,  to  sustain  the  romantic  quality  in  her 
mood  to  treat  his  coming  as  a  matter  ot  vourse,  and  make 
it  a  natural  incident  to  the  moment. 

"Come  and  look  down  on  the  stars,"  she  said,  in  the  tone 
she  might  have  used  to  another  member  of  her  household 
who  had  appeared  accidentally.  "The  view  here,  in  the 
evening,  makes  one  feel  as  if  one  had  been  wafted  above 
the  sky." 

She  half-turned  toward  him,  but  did  not  offer  her  hand 

as  he  took  his  place  by  her  side.    For  a  few  seconds  he  said 

nothing,  and  when  he  spoke  she  accepted  his  words  in  the 

manner  in  which  she  had  taken  his  coming. 

"So  you're  going  to  marry  Conquest! 

It  was  to  show  that  the  abrupt  remark  had  not  perturbed 


THE        ty  I  L   D        OLIVE 

her  that  she  nodded  her  head  assentingly,  still  with  the 
smile  that  had  greeted  his  arrival. 

"Why?" 

In  spite  of  her  efforts  she  manifested  some  surprise. 

"What  makes  you  ask  that  question — now?" 

"  Because  it  never  occurred  to  me  before  that  there  might 
be  a  special  reason." 

"  Well,  there  is  one." 

"Has  it  anything  to  do  with  me  ?" 

She  backed  away  from  him  slightly,  to  the  sid,"  curve  of 
the  window,  where  it  joined  the  straight  line  of  the  wall. 
In  this  position  she  had  him  more  directly  in  view. 

"I  said  there  was  a  reason,"  she  answered,  after  some 
hesitation.     "  I  didn't  say  I  would  tell  you  what  il  was." 

"No,  but  you  will,  won't  you  f" 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  want  to  know." 

"Is  that  quite  true?"  he  queried,  with  a  somewhat 
startling  fixing  o.  his  eyes  upon  her.  "Don't  you  see? 
Can't  you  imagine  ?" 

"I  don't  see  why — in  such  circumstances  as  these — any 
man  should  want  to  know  what  a  woman  doesn't  tell 
him." 

"Then  I'll  explain  to  you.  I  want  to  know,  because 
...  I  think  .  .  .  you're  marrying  Conquest  .  .  .  when  you 
don't  love  him  .  .  ." 

"He  never  asked  me  to  love  him.  He  said  he  could  do 
without  that," 

"...  while  .  .  .  you  do  love  .  .  .  some  one  else." 

She  reflected  before  speaking.  Under  his  piercing  look 
i,he  took  on  once  more  the  appealing  expression  of  forest 
cieatures  at  bay. 

"Even  if  that  were  true,"  she  said,  at  last,  "there  would 
32s 


I  i 


I   {» 


THE        WILD        O  L   I  V  h 

be  no  harm  in  it  as  long  as  there  was  what  you  asked  me  foi 
at  first — a  special  reason." 

"Is  there  ever  a  reason  for  a  step  like  that?    I  don'i 
believe  it." 
"  But  I  do  believe  it,  you  see.     That  makes  a  difference.' 
"It  would  make  a  still  greater  difference  if  I  begged  yoii 
not  to  do  it,  wouldn't  it  V 
She  shook  her  head.     "It  wouldn't — now." 
"I  let  you  see  yesterday  that  I — I  loved  you." 
"Since  you  force  me  to  acknowledge  it — ^yes." 
"And  you've  shown  me,"  he  ventured,  "within  the  last 
minute,  that  you^ove  me." 

Her  figure  grew  more  erect  against  the  background  oi 
exterior  darkness.  Even  the  hand  that  rested  on  the  wood- 
work of  the  window  became  tense.  Lambent  fire  in  hei 
eyes — the  light  that  he  used  to  call  non-Aryan — took  the 
place  of  the  fugitive  glance  of  the  woodland  animal;  but 
she  kept  her  composure. 
"Well,  what  then?" 

"Then  you'd  be  committing  a  sacrilege  against  your- 
self—if you  married  any  one  else  but  me." 

If  her  heart  bounded  at  the  words,  she  did  nothing  to 
betray  it. 

"You  say  that,  because  it  seems  so  to  you.     I  take  an- 
other view  of  it.     Love  to  me  does  not  necessarily  mean 
marriage,  any  more  than  marriage  necessarily  implies  love. 
There  have  been  happy  marriages  without  love,  and  there 
can  be  honorable  love  that  doesn't  ask  marriage  as   its 
object.     If  I  married  you  now,  I  should  seem  to  myself  to 
be  deserting  a  high  impulse  for  a  lower  one." 
"There's  only  one  sort  of  impulse  to  love." 
"Not  to  my  love.     I  know  what  you  mean  —  but  my 
3j6 


'     '    iff 


THE        WILD        O   L    T   y   u 

love  has  more  than  one  prompting,  and  the  highest  is^r 
I  hope  It  is-to  try  to  do  what's  right." 

"But  this  would  not  be  right." 

"I'm  the  only  judge  of  that." 

"Not  if  we  love  each  other.  In  that  case  I  become  a 
judge  of  It,  too. 

Once  more  sh.  reflected.    In  speaking  she  lifted  her  head 
and  looked  at  him  frankly. 
"Very  well;    I'll  admit  it.     Perhaps  it's  true.     In  any 

,  d:in;t''"""^°"^^''"^''"'^°'"g'-<i-''yi- 

It  was  one  of  those  occasions  when  a  woman's  emotion 
's  so  great  that  she  seems  to  have  none  at  all.  As  i^on  is 
.aid  to  come  to  a  degree  of  heat  so  intense  that  it  does  not 
burn,  so  M,nam  Strange  seemed  to  herself  to  have  reached 
a  stage  where  the  sheer  truth,  simple  and  without  reserve, 
could  bnng  no  shame  to  her  womanhood.  Words  that 
could  not  have  passed  her  lips  either  before  that  evening 
or  after  .t  escaped  her  in  the  subsequent  minutes  as  a  mat! 
ter  of  course 

"I  entered  into  your  life  t^vice.  and  each  time  I  did 
you  harm.  On  the  first  occasion  I  turned  you  into  Her- 
bert Strange  and  sent  you  out  on  a  career  of  deception; 
on  the  second,  I  can.e  between  you  and  Evie,  and  brought 
vou  to  the  present  pass,  where  you're  facing  death  again 
as  you  were  e.ght  or  nine  years  ago.  It's  no  use  to  tell  vou 
that  I  wanted  to  do  my  best,  because  good  intentions  'are 
not  much  excuse  for  the  trouble  they  often  cause.  But 
1  m  ready  to  s,-iy  this:  that  whenever  you've  suffered,  I've 

i„"!rf  '""•'■     '^''"''  "''P'"='"y  '™^  °f  ^h"'^  happened 
■n  the  last  s,x  months.     And  whe,.  I  saw  how  n,uch  I  had 


THE        fr  I  L   D        OLIVE 


Mil 


!  i 


put  wrong,  it  was  a  comfort  to  think  there  was  something 
at  least  that  I  could  put  right  again." 

"But  you've  put  nothing  wrong.  That's  what  I  should 
like  to  convince  you  of." 

"  I've  put  you  in  a  position  of  danger.  When  I  see  that, 
1  see  enough  to  act  upon." 

"It's  a  very  slight  danger." 

"It  is  now,  because  I've  made  it  slight.  It  wasn't — 
before  I  went  to  Mr.  Conquest." 

"You  went  to  him— what  for?" 

"He  wanted  me  to  marry  him.  He  had  wanted  it  for 
a  long  time.  I  tofd  him  I  would  do  so,  on  condition  that 
he  found  the  evidence  that  would  prove  you  innocent." 

Ford  laughed  harshly,  and  rather  loudly,  stopping  sud- 
denly, as  though  he  had  ceased  to  see  the  joke. 

"So  that's  it!  That's  why  Conquest  has  been  so  devil- 
ishly kind.  I  wondered  at  his  interest — or  at  least  I  should 
have  wondered  if  I'd  had  the  time.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  took  it  for  granted  that  he  should  help  me,  as  a  drowning 
man  takes  it  for  granted  that  the  chance  p?.sser-by  should 
pull  him  out.  It  wasn't  till  this  evening—about  half  an 
hour  ago—    By  Jove!    I  ran  right  up  against  it." 

"You  ran  right  up  against — ^what?" 

"Against  the  truth.  It  came  in  a  flash— just  like  that." 
He  snapped  his  fingers.  "You're  selling  yourself— to  get 
me  oflF." 

She  seetf.ed  to  grow  straighter,  taller.  For  the  minute 
he  saw  nothing  but  the  blaze  of  her  eyes. 

"Well  ?  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  My  mother  sold  herself— 
to  get  a  man  off.  He  was  my  father.  I'm  proud  of  her. 
She  did  the  best  she  could  with  her  life.  I'm  doing  the 
best  I  can  with  mine." 


THE        WILD 


OLIVE 


"But  I  shouldn't  be  doing  the  best  I  can  with  mine— if 
I  let  you  continue." 

"Isn't  it  too  late  for  you  to  stop  me  ?  If  I've  sold  my- 
self, as  you  put  it,  the  price  has  been  paid  in.  Mr.  Con- 
quest has  secured  the  evidence  that  will  acquit  you.  It 
will  be  used.     That's  all  I  care  about— much." 

She  saw  the  hot  color  surge  into  his  cheeks  and  brows. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  his  eyes  grew  red  as  the  blood  left  his 

hps.     She  had  never  before  been  called  on  to  confront  a 

man  angry  with  a  passion  beyond  his  control,  but  instinct 

told  her  what  the  signs  were.     Instinct  told  her,  too,  that, 

however  confused  his  own  sensations  might  be,  his  anger 

was  not  so  much  resc.-.cment  against  anything  she  might 

have  done  as  it  was  despair  at  having  lost  her.     She  had 

guessed  already  that  he  would  be  seized  with  a  blind  impulse 

to  strike,  as  soon  as  he  came  to  a  realizing  sense  of  her 

action;    though  she  had  not  expected  the  moment  of  his 

fuiy  till  after  he  went  free.     Till  then,  she  had  thought,  he 

would  be  partially  unconscious  of  his  pain,  just  as  a  soldier 

fighting  will  run  along  for  a  while  without  feeling  a  bullet 

in  his  flesh.     The  anticipation  of  an  awakening  on  his 

part  some  time  enabled  her  to  see  beyond  the  madness  of 

this  instinct,  even  though  the  words  he  threw  at  her  struck 

like  stones.     The  very  fact  that  she  could  see  how  he 

labored  with  himself  to  keep  them  back  gave  her  strength 

to  take  them  without  flinching. 

"You  .  .  .  dared  .  .  .    ?    Without  ...  my  ...  per- 
mission .  .  .    ?" 

"  I'd  done  so  many  things  without  your  permission  that  it 
seemed  I  could  venture  that  far." 
"You  were  wrong.     It  was— too  far." 
"It  wasn't  too  far— when  I  loved  you." 
329 


mn 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

She  Uttered  the  words  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  without 
a  tremor.  She  foresaw  their  effect  in  bringing  him  to  him- 
lelf.  In  his  next  words  his  tone  had  already  softened 
slightly  to  one  of  protest. 

"  But  I  could  have  done  it  so  much  better— I  so  much 
more  easily — 1  without — " 

"I  could  have  done  that  too.  Mr.  Conquest  pointed  !• 
out  to  me.  He  took  no  advantage  of  my  ignorance.  Asa 
matter  of  fact,  I  wasn't  ignorant  at  all.  I  was  extremely 
clear-sighted  and  wise.  My  love  for  you  made  me  so.  I 
knew— I  felt  it— that  money  might  fail  to  do  what  I  wanted. 
But  I  knew  too  that  there  was  one  thing  that  wouldn't 
fail.  If  you  were  innocent— and  I  wasn't  wholly  sure  that 
you  were— I  knew  there  was  one  energy  that  would  surely 
prove  you  so— and  that  was  Charles  Conquest's  desire  to 
have  me  as  his  wife.  I  took  the  CDurse  in  which  there  was 
least  risk  of  failure— and  you  see—" 

A  little  gesture,  triumphant  in  its  suggestion,  finished  her 

sentence. 

"What  I  see  is  this,"  Ford  answered,  thickly,     that  1  m 
to  hold  my  life  at  the  cost  of  your  degradation." 

"  Degradation  ?    That's  a  hard  word.     But  as  applied  to 
me— I  don't  know  what  it  means." 

"Isn't  it  degradation  ?— to  enter  into  a  marriage  in  which 
you  put  no  love  V 

""here  was  a  kind  of  superb  indifference  in  her  answer.^ 
/ou  may  call  it  degradation  if  you  choose.  I  shouldn't. 
As  long  as  you  go  free,  you  can  call  my  action  anything 
you  like.  I  dare  say,"  she  admitted,  "you're  quite  right, 
from  the  highest  moral— and  modem— point  of  view;  but 
that  doesn't  appeal  to  me.  You  see-you've  got  to  make 
allowances  for  it-I'm  not  a  child  of  your  civilization.  I  m 
33° 


ii 


I  M    TO    HOLD    MY    LIFE    AT   THE    COST   OF    YOUR 
DEGRADATION  " 


Ill  n 


THE        ir   f   L    D        PL   I   y  E 

not  a  child  of  any  civilization  at  all.  At  best  I'm  like  the 
wild  creature  that  submits  to  being  tamed  because  it  doesn't 
know  what  else  to  do — but  remains  wild  at  heart.  I  used 
to  chink  I  could  come  into  your  system  of  law  and  order  if 
any  one  would  take  me.  But  now  I  know  I  sh.ill  always 
be  outside  it.  The  very  word  you've  just  used  of  me  showi 
me  that  You  say  I'm  to  be  degraded — it's  your  civilized 
point  of  view.  I  have  no  comprehension  of  that  whatever. 
Because  I  love  you  I  want  to  save  you.  I  don't  care  any- 
thing about  the  means  so  long  as  I  reach  the  end.  To  undo 
the  harm  I've  done  to  you  I'd  freely  give  my  body  to  be 
burned;  so  why  shoucln't  I—?  No,  no,"  she  cried,  as  he 
made  as  though  he  would  approach  her,  "keep  away. 
Don't  come  near  mc'  I  can  only  talk  to  you  like  this — at 
a  distance.  I  shall  never  say  these  things  again — but  I 
want  to  tell  you — to  explain  to  you — I  should  like  you  to 
understand." 

She  repeated  herself  haltingly  because,  as  Ford  held 
back  from  approaching  her,  a  sudden  spasm  passed  over  his 
face,  while  he  hung  his  head,  and  compressed  his  lips  in  a 
way  that  made  him  seem  surprisingly  boyish  all  at  once, 
and  touched  that  maternal  tenderness  in  htr  that  had 
always  formed  such  a  large  part  of  her  yearning  over  him. 
It  was  he  kind  of  tenderness  that  steadied  her  own  nerve, 
and  kept  her  dry-eyed  and  strong,  as  she  saw  him  reel  to  a 
chair,  and  flinging  his  arms  on  the  table  beside  it,  bow  him- 
self down  on  them,  while  his  form  shook  convulsively.  She 
had  no  shame  for  him.  She  understood  perfectly  that  the 
pressure  of  years  had  been  brought  to  bear  on  the  complex 
emotions  of  the  moment — to  which  reaction  from  his  brief 
anger  and  his  bitter  words  added  ai  element  of  remorse — 
to  cause  this  honest,  manly  nature  that  had  never  made 
331 


THE       WILD 


OLIVE 


1 

■^'^ 

1 

■ 

1 

1 

i 

'\ 

1 

i 

i 

! 

H 

U 

i 

Jl 

«ny  pretence  of  being  stronger  than  it  was,  to  give  way  to 
the  instant's  weakness.  She  was  sure  he  would  never  have 
done  it  in  the  presence  of  any  one  but  her,  and  she  was 
thrilled  with  a  curious  joy  at  this  proof  of  their  spiritual 
intimacy.  What  was  difficult  was  not  the  keeping  of  her 
own  self-control,  but  the  holding  herself  back  from  crossing 
the  room  and  laying  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  in  token  of 
their  oneness  at  heart;  but  there,  she  felt,  the  forbidden 
line  would  be  passed.  She  could  only  wait— it  was  not 
long— till  he  was  calm  again.  Then  he  pulled  himself  to- 
gether, got  up  heayily,  and  obviously  refrained  from  look- 
ing her  in  the  face.  In  the  act  and  the  attitude  there  wag 
something  so  boylike,  so  natural,  so  entirely  lacking  in 
the  dignity  of  grief,  that  if  she  had  any  impulse  to  let  her 
own  tears  flow  it  was  thea 

But  she  knew  it  to  be  one  of  those  minutes  when  a  woman 
has  to  be  strong  for  herself  and  for  the  man,  too,  even 
though  she  break  down  afterward.  The  necessity  of  com- 
ing t^o  an  understanding  with  him,  once  for  all,  impelled 
her  to  the  economy  of  her  forces,  while  the  nervous  snap- 
ping of  his  fortitude  had  given  her  an  opportunity  she  could 
not  afford  to  lose. 

"So  I  want  you  to  see,"  she  went  on,  quietly,  as  though 
no  interruption  had  occurred,  "that  having  gained  my 
point  in  helping  to— to  get  you  off,  it's  to  some  extent  a 
matter  of  indifference  what  you  think  of  me— what  any 
one  thinks  of  me— just  as  it  was  when  I  hid  you  in  my 
studio,  nearly  nine  years  ago.  You  must  put  it  down  to  my 
being  of  wild  origin  and  not  wholly  amenable  to  civilized 
dictates.  I  can  only  do  what  the  inward  urging  drives  me 
on  to  do— just  as  my  mother  did— and  my  father.  If  it's 
degrading — " 

33* 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

Raising  his  head  at  last,  he  strode  toward  he-  He  put 
his  hands  rigidly  behind  his  back,  as  if  to  show  her  that  he 
pinioned  them  there  in  token  that  she  had  nothing  to  fear 
from  him.  His  eyes  were  red,  and  there  was  still  a  painful 
tightening  about  his  lips. 

"You'll  have  to  let  me  take  that  back,"  he  muttered, 
unsteadily.  "I  didn't  know  what  I  was  saying.  It's  come 
on  me  so  suddenly  that  it's  broken  me  all  up.  I  haven't 
realized  till  this  evening  what — ^what  everything  meant. 
It  seemed  to  me  then  that  I  couldn't  stand  it." 

"But  you  can." 

"Ytj,  I  can,"  he  replied,  doggedly.  "One  can  stand 
anything.  If  I  reached  my  limit  for  a  minute,  it  was  in 
seeing  that  you  have  to  suffer  for  my  sake — " 

"Wouldn't  you  suffer  for  mine?" 

"I  couldn't.     Suffering  for  your  sake  would  become  such 

» py—" 

"That  it  wouldn't  be  suffering.  That's  just  it.  That's 
what  I  feel,  exactly.  It  isn't  hard  for  me  to  do  what  I'm 
doing  because  I  know — I  know — I'm  helping  to  save  your 
honor  if  not  your  life.  I  don't  believe  money  would  have 
done  it.  Mr.  Conquest  reminded  me  that  the  best  legal 
services  can  be  bought,  but  I  never  thought  for  an  instant 
that  you  could  secure  zeal  such  as  his  for  anything  less 
than  I  offered  him.  And  he's  been  so  superb!  He's  given 
himself  up  to  the  thing  absolutely.  He's  followed  every 
trail  with  a  scent — with  a  certainty — your  other  men,  your 
Kilcup  and  Warren,  would  never  have  been  capable  of. 
I've  seen  that;  I'm  sure  of  it.  He  has  a  wonderful  mind, 
and  in  his  way  he  has  the  kindest  heart  in  the  world.  I'm 
very,  very  fond  of  him,  and  I'm  deeply  grateful.  Next  to 
seeing  you  free,  I  don't  think  I  have  any  desire  in  life  so 
22  333 


THE        WILD        O   L   I  VSE 


strong  as  to  make  him  happy.  I  dare  say  that  isn't  civ- 
ilized, either — but  it's  what  I  feel.  And  so  we  must  think 
of  this,"  she  continued,  eagerly  explanative;  "we  must 
be  loyal  to  him,  you  and  I,  as  the  first  of  all  our  duties. 
Don't  you  think  so?" 

He  withdrew  his  eyes  from  hers  before  answering.  His 
power  of  resistance  was  broken.  The  signs  of  struggle  were 
visible,  and  yet  the  quixotic  element  in  his  own  nature 
helped  him  to  respond  to  that  in  hers. 

"I'll  try,"  he  muttered,  looking  on  the  ground. 

"You'll  do  more  than  try— you'll  succeed.  Only  very 
small  souls  could  grudge  him  what  he's  earned  when  he's 
worked  so  hard  and  given  himself  so  unstintingly.  The 
very  fact  that  you  and  I  know  that  we  love  each  other  will 
make  it  easier  to  be  true  to  him." 

"Conquest  must  know  that  we  love  each  other,  too," 
he  declared,  with  some  bitterness. 

"Perhaps  he  does;  but,  yoii  see,  every  one  has  a  difiTer- 
ent  way  of  looking  at  life,  and  I  don't  think  that  with  him 
it's  a  thing  that  counts  greatly.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  under- 
stand him  in  that  respect.  I  only  know  that  you  and  I, 
who  owe  him  so  much,  can  repay  him  by  giving  him  what 
he  asks  for.    Will  you  promise  me  to  do  it  ?" 

He  continued  to  look  downward,  as  though  finding  it 
hard  to  give  his  word;  but  when  he  raised  his  eyes  again, 
he  flung  back  his  head  with  his  old  air  of  resolution. 

"I'll  promise  to  do  anything  you  ask  me  throughout  our 
lives.  I  don't  admit  that  Conquest  should  demand  this 
thing  or  that  he  had  any  right  to  let  you  offer  it.  But 
since  you  want  to  give  it — and  I  can  show  you  no  other 
token  of  my  love — and  shall  never  again  be  able  to  tell  you 
that  I  adore  you — that  I  adore  you — I  promise — to  obey." 
334 


XXV 


|HE  inspection  of  tiie  house  was  over,  and 
■  they  had  come  back  to  the  drawing-room 
for  tea.  Conquest  had  lavished  pains  on 
the  occasion,  putting  flowers  in  the  rooms, 
— J  and  strewing  handsome  objects  carelessly 
about,  so  as  to  impart  to  the  great  shell  as  much  as  possible 
the  air  of  bemg  lived  in.  To  the  tea-table  he  had  given 
particular  attention,  ordering  out  the  most  ornamental 
Sliver  and  the  costliest  porcelain,  and  placing  the  table 
Itself  just  where  she  would  probably  have  it  in  days  to  come 
so  as  to  get  the  effect  she  produced  in  sitting  there,  as  he 
liked  to  do  with  a  new  picture  or  piece  of  furniture. 

On  her  part,  Miriam  had  made  the  rounds  of  the  rooms 
with  conscientious  care,  observing,  admiring,  suggesting 
with  just  that  mingling  of  shyness  and  interest  with  which  a 
woman  in  her  situation  would  view  her  future  home 
Having  got,  by  intuition,  the  idea  that  he  was  watching  for 
some  flaw  in  her  manner,  she  was  determined  that  he 
should  find  none.  It  was  the  beginning  of  that  lifelong 
schooling  to  his  service  to  which  she  had  vowed  herself, 
though  the  effort  would  have  been  easier  had  he  not  rendered 
her  self-conscious  by  scanning  her  so  keenly  out  of  his 
little  gray-green  eyes.  Nevertheless,  she  was  pleased  with 
the  manner  in  which  she  was  acquitting  herself,  giving  him 
his  tea  and  taking  her  own  with  no  sign  of  embarrassment. 


THE        W  I  L    D 


OLIVE 


i. 


As  on  the  preceding  day,  it  was  this  perfection  of  acting,  as 
he  chose  to  call  it,  that  exasperated  his  restless  suspicion 
more  than  any  display  of  weakness.  ,,  ,    ,    j 

The  thought  that  she  was  keeping  her  true  self  locked 
against  him  had,  during  the  last  twenty-four  hours,  become 
an  obsession,  making  it  impossible  for  him  to  eat  or  to  sleep. 
In  her  serene,  impeccable  bearing  he  saw  nothmg  but  the 
bars  up  ar,d  the  blinds  drawn  down.     An  mstant  of  falter- 
ing or  self-betrayal  would  have  admitted  him  to  at  least  a 
glimpse  of  ^v hat  w^s  passing  within;  but  through  this  well- 
balanced  graciousness  it  was  as  difficult  to  get  at  her  soul 
as  to  read  the  mind  of  the  Venus  of  Milo  in  the  marble 
nobility  of  her  face.     He  had  led  her  from  room  to  room, 
describing  one,   explaining  another,   and   apologizmg  for 
a  third,  but  all  the  while  trying  to  break  down  her  guard, 
only  to  find,  as  they  returned  to  the  pomt  at  which  they 
started,  that  he  had  failed.     It  was  with  nerves  all  unstrung, 
and  ^^ith  a  lack  of  self-command  he  would  have  been,  in  his 
saner  senses,  the  first  to  condemn,  that  he  strode  up  at 
last  and  rapped  sharply  at  the  door  of  her  barricaded 

"^'"why  did  you  never  tell  me  that  you  knew  Norrie  Ford 

— years  ago  ?"  ,         ,  i 

He  wao  putting  his  empty  cup  on  the  table  as  he  spoke,  so 
that  he  could  avoid  looking  at  her.  She  was  glad  of  this 
respite  from  his  gaze,  for  she  found  the  question  startling. 
Before  the  scrutiny  of  his  eyes  was  turned  on  her  again 

she  had  herself  in  hand.  ^^ 

"I  should  probably  have  told  you  some  time.     ^ 

"Very  likely.    The  odd  thing  is  that  you  didn  t  tell  me 

at  once."  .  „ 

"It  wasn't  so  odd-given  all  the  circumstances. 
336 


THE        IF  I  L  D        OLIVE 


Ford 


"It  wasn't  so  odd,  given  some  of  the  circumstances: 
but  given  them  all— atf— I  should  say,  I  ought  to  hav» 
known." 

She  allowed  a  few  seconds  to  pass. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  slowly,  then,  "that  may  fairly  be 
considered  a  matter  of  opinion.  I  don't  see,  however,  that 
it  makes  much  diiference — since  you  know  now." 

'My  knowing  or  not  knowing  now  isn't  quite  the  point. 
The  fact  of  importance  is  that  you  never  told  me.' 

"  I'm  sorry  you  should  take  it  in  that  way;  but  since  I 
didn  t — and  the  matter  is  beyond  remedy — I  suppose  we 
shouldn't  gain  anything  by  discussing  it." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  It  seems  to  me  a  subject  that 
ought  to  be — aired." 

She  tried  to  smile  down  bis  aggressiveness,  succeeding 
partially,  in  that  he  subdued  the  quarrelsomeness  of  hit 
Toice  and  manner  to  that  affectation  of  banter  behind 
which  he  concealed  habitually  his  real  self,  and  by  which 
ke  most  easily  deceived  her. 

"Very  well,"  she  laughed;  "I'm  quite  ready  to  air  it; 
•nly  I  don't  know  just  how  it's  to  be  done." 

"Suppose  you  were  to  tell  me  what  happened,  in  your 
own  language  7" 

"  If  Mr.  Ford  has  told  you  already,  as  I  imagine  he  has, 
I  don't  see  that  my  language  can  be  very  different  from 
his.    All  the  same,  I'll  try,  since  you  want  me  to." 

"Just  so." 

During  the  few  minutes  she  took  to  collea  her  thought! 
he  could  see  sweep  over  her  features  one  of  those  swift, 
light  changes — as  delicate  as  the  ripple  of  summer  wind  oq 
water — ^which  transformed  her  in  an  instant  from  the 
woman  of  the  world  to  the  forest  maid,  the  ppirit  of  thf 
3i7 


THE 


WILD        OLIVE 


indigenous.  The  mystery  of  the  nomadic  ages  was  in  her 
eyes  again  as  she  began  her  narrative,  wistfully,  and 
reminiscently. 

"You  see,  I'd  been  thinking  a  good  deal  of  my  father 
and  mother.  I  hadn't  known  about  them  very  long,  and 
I  lived  with  their  memory.  The  Mother  Superior  had 
told  me  a  few  things— all  she  knew,  I  suppose— before  I 
left  the  convent  at  Quebec;  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wayne— 
especially  Mrs.  Wayne— had  added  the  rest.  That  was 
the  chief  reason  why  I  wanted  the  studio— so  that  I  could 
get  away  from  the  house,  which  was  so  oppressive  to  me, 
and— so  it  seemed  to  me— live  with  them,  with  nothing 
but  the  woods  and  the  hills  and  the  sky  about  me.  I  could 
be  very  happy  then— painting  things  I  fancied  they  might 
have  done,  and  pinning  them  up  on  the  wall.  I  dare  say 
it  was  foolish,  but — ' 
"  It  was  very  natural.    Go  on.' 

"And  then  came  up  all  this  excitement  about  Norri* 
Ford.  For  months  the  whole  region  talked  of  nothing  else. 
Nearly  every  one  believed  he  had  shot  his  uncle,  but,  ex- 
cept in  the  villages,  the  sympathy  with  him  was  tremendous. 
Some  people— especially  the  hotel-keepers  and  those  who 
depended  on  the  tourist  travel— were  for  law  and  order; 
but  others  said  that  old  Chris  Ford  had  got  no  more  than 
he  deserved.  That  was  the  way  they  used  to  talk.  Mr. 
Wayne  was  on  the  side  of  law  and  order,  tocpnaturally— 
till  the  trial  came  on;  and  then  he  began—" 
"I  know  all  abont  that.  Go  on." 
"My  own  sympathy  was  with  the  man  in  prison.  I 
nsed  to  dream  about  him.  I  remembered  what  Mt». 
Wayne  had  told  me  my  mother  had  done  for  my  father. 
I  was  proud  of  that.  Though  I  knew  only  vaguely  what 
338 


i  m 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

k  wa.,  I  wa,  sure  it  wa,  what  I  should  have  done,  toa 
So  when  there  was  ulk  of  breaking  into  the  jail  and  help- 
uig  Nome  to  escape.  I  used  to  think  how  easily  I  could 
keep  any  one  hidden  in  my  studio.  I  don't  mean  I  thought 
of  It  as  a  practical  thing;  it  was  just  a  dream." 
^^  But  a  dream  that  came  true." 

Ha^M'    w""""  ""'•     ^'  "*"  wonderful.     It  was  ,he 
day  Mr.   Wayne  sentenced   him.     I   knew  what  he    w.s 

!l  M^~w  •  ^"'T'  ^  ""''"■  ^^  "-^  ="'  -T^i'^g; 

even  Mrs.  Wayne  who  in  her  gentle  way  was  generally  so 
hard.   Some  people  thought  Mr.  Wayne  needn't  have  done 
It,   and  I  suppose  it  was  just  his  conscientiousness-be- 
cause  he  had  such  a  horror  of  the  thing-that  drove  him  on 
to  It.     He  thought  he  mustn't  shirk  his  duty.     But  that 
night  at  the  house  was  awful.     We  dressed  for  dinner,  and 
tried  to  act  as  if  nothing  f.ightful  had  happened-but  it 
was  as  If  the  hangman  was  sitting  with  us  at  the  table. 
At  last  I  couldn  t  endure  it.     I  went  out  into  the  garden- 
you  remember  it  was  one  of  those  gardens  with  chpned 
yews.     Out  there,  in  the  air,  I  stopped  thinking  of  Mr 
Wayne  and  his  distress  to  think  of  Norrie  Ford.     It  seemed 
to  me  as  if,  ,n  some  strange  way,  he  belonged  to  me-that 
1  ought  to  do  something-as  my  mother  had  done  for  my 
father.     And  then-all  of  a  sudden-I  saw  him  creep  in  " 
now  did  you  know  it  was  he .?" 
"I  thought  it  must  be,  though  I  was  only  sure  of  it  when 
1  was  on  the  terrace  and  saw  his  face.     He  crept  along 
.nd  crept  along-    Oh,  such  a  forlorn,  hopeless,  outcast 
figure!    My  heart  ach.d  at  the  sight  of  him.     I  didn't 
know  what  he  meant  to  do,  and  at  first  I  had  no  intention 
of  attempting  anything.     It  was  by  degrees  that  my  own 
•bought  about  the  studio  came  back  to  me.     By  that  tim. 
339 


T  H  £        y  I  L   D        OLIVE 

Im  wai  on  the  reianda  of  the  house,  and  I  was  afraid  hi 
meant  to  kill  Mr.  Wayne.  I  went  after  him.  I  though* 
i  Would  entice  him  away  and  hide  him.  But  the  minutt 
he  heard  my  footstep  he  leaped  into  the  house.  Tlie  next 
1  saw,  he  was  talking  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wayne-and  some- 
thing told  me  he  wouldn't  hurt  them.  After  that  I  watched 
my  chance  till  he  looked  outward,  and  then  I  beckoned  to 
him.  That's  how  it  happened." 
"And  then?" 

"After  that  everything  was  easy.  He  must  have  told 
you.  I  kept  him  in  the  studio  for  three  weeks,  and  brought 
him  food-and  clothing  of  my  father's.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  my  father  was  doing  everything— not  I.  That  s  what 
made  it  so  simple.  I  know  my  father  would  have  wanted 
me  to  do  it.  I  was  only  the  agent  in  carrying  out  his  will. 
"That's  one  way  of  looking  at  it,"   Conquest  said, 

grimly.  . 

"It's  the  only  way  I've  ever  looked  at  it;  the  only  way 

I  ever  shall." 

"It  was  a  romantic  situation,"  he  observed,  when  she 
had  given  him  the  outll'.fis  of  the  rest  of  the  story.  I 
wonder  you  didn't  fall  in  love  with  him." 

He  smoothed  the  colorless  line  of  his  mustache,  as  though 
concealing  a  smile.  He  had  recaptured  the  teasing  ton. 
he  'U-.ed  to  employ  toward  her,  though  its  nervous  sharp- 
ness would  have  betrayed  him  had  she  suspected  his  real 
thoughts.  While  she  said  nothing  in  response,  the  tilt  of 
her  head  was  that  which  he  associated  with  her  moods  of 
indignation  or  pride.  . 

"  Perhaps  you  did,"  he  persisted.    Then,  as  she  remained 

lilent,  "Did  you?" 

340 


i  m 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

She  resolved  on  a  bold  step— the  audacity  of  that  perfect 
candor  she  had  always  taken  as  a  guide. 

"I  don't  know  that  one  could  call  it  that,"  she  said, 
quietly. 

He  drew  a  quick  inward  breath,  clinching  his  teeth,  but 
keeping  his  fixed  smile. 
"But  you  don't  know  that  one  couldn't." 
"I  can't  define  what  I  felt  at  all." 
^^  "It  was  just  enough,"  he  pursued,  in  his  bantering  tone, 
"to  keep  you— looking  for  him  back— as  you  told  me— that 
day." 
She  lifted  her  eyes  in  a  swift  glance  of  tepioach. 
"It  was  that — then." 
"But  it's  more — now.    Isn't  it.'" 
She  met  hin^  squarely. 
"  I  don't  think  you've  any  right  to  ask." 
He  laughed  aloud,  somewhat  shrilly. 
"That's  good!— considering  we're  to  be  man  and  wife." 
"We're  to  be  man  and  wife  on  a  very  distinct  under- 
standing, to  which  I'm  perfectly  loyal.     I  mean  to  be  loyal 
to  it  always— and  to  you.    I  shall  give  you  everything  you 
ever  asked  for.     If  there  are  some  things— one  thmg  in 
particular— out  of  my  power  to  give  you,  I've  said  so  from 
the  first,  and  you've  to!d  me  you  could  do  without  them. 
If  what  I  can't  give  you  I've  given  to  some  one  else— because 
—because— I   couldn't   help   it— that's   my  secret,   and   I 
claim  the  right  to  guard  it." 

They  faced  one  another  across  the  table  piled  with  omatt 

silver.     He  had  not  lost  his  smile. 

"You've  the  merit  of  being  clear,"  was  his  only  comment. 

"You  force  me  to  be  clear,"  she  declared,  with  heightened 

•plor,  "and  a  little  angry.    When  you  asked  me  to  be  your 

341 


THE        JV  I  L   D        OLIVE 

wife — long  ago — I  told  you  there  were  certain  conditioni 
I  could  never  fulfil — and  you  waived  them.  On  that 
ground  I'm  ready  to  meet  all  your  wishes,  and  make  you  a 
good  wife  to  the  utmost  of  my  power.  I'm  eager  to  do  it — 
because  I  honor  and  respect  you  as  women  don't  alwayt 
honor  and  respect  the  very  men  they  love.  I've  told  Norrie 
Ford,  and  I  repeat  it  to  you,  that  after  seeing  him  go  free 
and  restored  to  his  place  among  men,  the  most  ardent 
desire  of  my  life  is  to  make  you  happy.  I'm  perfectly  true; 
I'm  perfectly  sincere.    What  more  can  you  ask  of  me  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  searchingly,  while  he  thought  hard  and 
rapidly.  He  could  ,not  complain  that  the  bars  were  up  and 
the  blinds  drawn  any  longer.  On  the  contrary,  she  had 
let  him  see  into  the  recesses  of  her  life  with  a  clarity  that 
(tartled  him,  as  pure  truth  startles  often.  As  he  sat  musing, 
his  pretence  at  cynicism  fell  from  him,  together  with  some- 
thing of  his  furbished  air  of  youth.  She  saw  him  grow 
graver,  grayer,  older,  under  her  very  eyes,  and  was  moved 
with  compunction — with  compassion.  Her  face  still  aglow 
and  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  she  leaned  to  him  acroti 
the  table,  speaking  in  the  rich,  low  voice  that  always  thrilled 
him. 

"What  I  feel  for  you  is  .  .  .  something  so  much  likt 
.  .  .  love  .  .  .  that  you  would  never  have  known  the  differ- 
ence ...  if  you  hadn't  wrung  it  from  me." 

Though  he  toyed  aimlessly  with  some  small  silver  object 
on  the  table  and  did  not  look  up,  her  words  sent  a  tremor 
through  his  frame.  The  Wise  Man  within  him  was  very 
eloquent,  repeating  again  and  again  the  sentence  she  her- 
telf  had  used  a  minute  or  two  ago:  What  more  could  ht 
ask  of  her  ?  What  more  coulJ  he  ask  of  her,  indeed,  after 
tilii  assurance  right  out  of  the  earnestness  and  honesty  of 
34» 


fii 


ULJ^ ^/  LP        O   L   I  y  E 

ker  pure  heart?  I,  wa,  enough  to  ,ati,fy  men  with  far 
greater  claim,  than  he  had  ever  put  forth,  and  far  more 
pretension  tha„  he  had  ever  dreamed  of  cherishing.  The 
Wise  Man  supphed  him  with  t«o  or  three  phrases  of  reply 
-neat  h„Ie  phrases,  that  would  have  bound  her  forever, 
and  yet  saved  h,s  self^steem.     He  turned  them  over  in  hi, 

while  h     r      r°"^"''  "^'"'^  *°  '^^  '  '""'^  °f  R''""""' 
while  he  1.  pt  them  terse.     He  could  feel  the  Wise  Man 

fidgeting  impatiently,  just  as  he  could  feel  her  fliminc 
expectant  eyes  upon  him;  and  still  he  toyed  with  the  small 
•liver  object  aimlessly,  conscious  of  a  certain  bitter  joy  in 
h.s  soul  s  suspense  He  had  not  yet  looked  up.  nor  polished 
the  Wise  Man  s  phrases  to  his  taste,  when  a  footman  threw 
the  door  open,  and  Norrie  Ford  himself  walked  in. 

Ihe  meeting  was  saved  from  awkwardness  chiefly  by 
Fords  own  lack  of  embarrassment.  As  he  crossed  the 
room  and  shook  hands,  first  with  Miriam,  then  with  Con- 
quest,  there  was  a  subdued  elation  in  his  manner  and  glance 
that  reduced  small  considerations  to  nothing 

"No;    I  won't  sit  down."  he  explained,  hurriedly,  and 
not  without  excitement,  "because  I  only  looked  in  for  a 
mmute.     I  ve  got  a  cab  waiting  for  me  outside.     The  fact 
IS,  I  ran  1 1  to  say  good-bye." 
"Good-bye .?"  Miriam  questioned. 
'•Not  for  long.  I  hope.     I'm  off-to  give  mysr""  up  » 

But  why  to-night  ?••   Conquest  asked.     "W  ..at's   the 
rush  ? 

"Only  that  I  want  to  get  my  word  in  first.  They've  got 
their  eye  on  me.  I  thought  it  yesterday,  and  I  kno.  it 
to-day.  I  want  them  to  see  that  I'm  not  afraid  of  them, 
«nd  so  Im  asking  their  hospitality  for  to-night.  I've  got 
my  bag  in  the  cab,  and  everything  ship-shape.  I  coulii't 
343 


THE        WILD        OLIVE 

do  it  without  coming  round  for  a  lait  word  with  you,  oM 
man;  and  I  wa(  going  to  see  you  afterward,  Misi  Strange. 
But  lince  I've  found  you  here—" 

"You  won't  have  to,"  she  finished,  brightly.  "I'm 
^ad  to  be  able  to  save  your  time.  I'm  confident  we're  not 
losing  you  for  long;  and  as  I  know  you're  eager,  I  can 
only  wish  you  God-speed,  and  be  glad  to  see  you  go." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  frankly,  strongly,  as  one  who 
hat  no  fear. 

"Now,"  she  added,  turning  to  Conquest,  "I'll  ask  you 
to  see  me  to  my  motor.  I  shall  leave  you  and  Mr.  Ford 
together,  as  I  know  you  must  have  some  last  detail  to 
arrange." 

Ford  protested,  but  she  gathered  up  her  gloves  and  fun, 
and  both  men  accompanied  her  to  the  street. 

It  was  an  autumn  evening,  drizzling  and  dark.  Up  and 
down  Fifth  Avenue  the  wet  pavements  reflected  the  electric 
lamps  like  blurred  mirrors.  There  were  few  passengers  on 
foot,  but  an  occasional  motor  whizzed  weirdly  out  of  the 
dark  and  into  it.  It  was  because  there  were  no  other  people 
to  be  seen  that  two  men  standing  in  the  rain  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  three  who  descended  Conquest's  step* 
together. 

"There  they  are,"  Ford  said,  jerkily.  "By  George! 
they've  got  ahead  of  me.' 

Instinctively  Miriam  clutched  his  arm,  while  one  of  the 
two  strangers  came  forward  apologetically. 

"You're  Mr.  John  Norrie  Ford,  ain't  you?" 

"I  am." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  sir,  but  I've  got  a  warrant  for  yott 
attest." 

"That's  all  tight,"  Ford  said,  cheerily.    "I  was  on  my 

344 


'^urteously,  whflt 

■lyant.    Mimm, 

"is  '  •'    >f  hi]  triumph. 

■vh^tv  ^nd  thrivclled  ia 

lin.;  special  to  tay,"  Ford 


THE       fr  I  L   D        O   L   I  y  E 

Wijr  to  you,  anyhow.  Youll  find  my  b«g  in  the  cab, 
and  everything  ready.  We'll  drive,  if  it'.  tW  the  lame  to 
you." 

"Yes,  lir.    Sure  thin      i   " 

The  man  dropped  f'ult  •  f. rt- 
Ford  turned  CO  hii  fri'' 11'.  lij.ii 
«oo,  reflected  the  -.i  1  ...ti  o;  'ir 
Gonquest  alone,  looki n'  ^ma'i  :iii 
the  rain,  showed  c  ic  jnil  'oi,. 

"I  don't  think  ti.iic'ii  ..n) 
Mtnarlccd,  with  the  awk.wu.Jn.ss  ■  n  simple  nature  at  an 
tmotional  crisis.  "I'm  nn;  try  yoou  at  thanks.  Misi 
Strange  knows  that  alreao/  But  its  all  in  here"— he 
tapped  his  breast,  with  a  characteristic  gesture— "very 
wcred,  very  strong." 

"We  know  that,"  Conquest  said,  unsteadily,  with  aa 
Wibarrassment  like  Ford's  own. 

"Well,   then— good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 

With  a  long  pressure  of  the  hand  to  each,  he  turned 
toward  his  cab.  Of  the  two  strangers,  one  took  his  place 
beside  the  driver  on  the  box,  while  the  other  held  the  door 
open  for  Ford  to  enter.  His  foot  was  already  on  the  step 
when  Miriam  cried,  "Wait!" 

He  turned  toward  her  as  she  glided  across  the  wet 
^vement. 

"Good-bye,  good-bye,"  she  whispered  again;  and  draw- 
ing down  his  face  to  hers,  she  kissed  him,  as  she  had  kissed 
him  once  before,  beside  the  waters  of  Champlain. 

As  she  drew  back  from  him,  Ford's  countenance  wore 
*e  iiplifted  look  of  a  knight  who  has  received  the  consecra- 
Mt  to  his  quest.  Even  the  two  strangers  bowed  their 
345 


THE        fr  I  L   D        OLIVE 


( 


heads,  ai  though  they  had  witnessed  the  bestowal  of  a 
sacrament.  To  Miriam  herself  it  was  the  seal  set  on  a 
past  that  could  never  be  reopened.  She  felt  the  definit*- 
ness  with  which  it  was  ended,  as  she  heard,  on  her  way 
back  to  G)nquest's  side,  the  door  slammed,  while  the  cab 
lumbered  away.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Conquest  shrank 
from  her  as  she  approached  him. 

"You'll  come  to-morrow  ?    I  shall  be  home  about  five." 

Conquest  had  put  her  into  her  motor,  drawn  the  rugs 
about  her,  and  closed  the  door.  As  he  did  so,  she  noticed 
something  slow  and'  broken  in  his  movements.  Leaning 
from  the  open  window,  she  held  out  her  hand,  but  he  barely 
touched  it. 

"No,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "I  shall  not  come  to-morrow." 

"Then,  the  next  day." 

"No,  nor  the  next  day." 

"Well,  when  you  can.  If  you  let  me  know,  I  shall  stay 
in,  whenever  it  may  be." 

"You  needn't  stay  in. 

"Oh,   don't   say  that. 
"You  hurt  me." 

"  I  can't  come,  Miriam.  Don't  you  see  ?  Isn't  it  plain 
enough?  I  can't  come.  I  thought  I  could.  I  tried  ta 
think  I  could  hold  you— in  spite  of  everything.  But  I 
can't.     I  can't." 

"You  can  hold  me— if  I  stay.  I  want  to  stay.  You 
mustn't  let  me  go.  I  want  you  to  be  happy.  You  deserve  it. 
You've  done  so  much  for  me — and  him." 

It  was  the  stress  she  laid  on  the  last  word— a  suggestioB 
of  something  triumphant  and  enraptured  beyond  resttai* 
—that  made  him  bound  back  to  the  untre  of  the  pavemeal. 
3*6 


I'm  not  coming  any  more." 
Don't  say  that,"   she   pleaded. 


THE        WILD        O   L   I   V   K 

»«)ice.       Miss  Strange  is  ready." 

l.;I^°"r°'"  '^'"""  '"''^'  ''"«^''i"g  both  hands  toward 
h.m        Imnot„ady.     Keep  me.     I  want  to  stay." 
Go  on!     he  cned,  sternly,  as  the  chauffeur  hesitated. 
Miss  Strange  is  quite  ready.     She  must  go  " 
Standing  by  the  curb,  he  watched  the  motor  gh'de  off  into 
the  misty    lampht  darkness.     He  was  watching  it  still    a, 
tt  overtook  the  carriage  in  which  Norrie  Ford  had    ust 
dnven  away.     As  the  two  vehicles  passed  abreast  out  of 
his  range  of  TisioM,  he  knew  they  were  bearing  Ford  and 
Miriam  side  bv  side  into  Life. 


y 


,,i   Ml 

0  i:    .(     .j,'ia 


^^^^^^^^" 


fe. 


SANE^REY'S  NOVELS 

i||EJ,IGHT^FWESTEI^STAR^ ===. 

DESERT  GOf.n 

This  15  the  record  of  a  trin ,-,;~  ...TT T 

THE  HERITAGEOFJTHEJJESERT 

THE  SHORT  STOP  '"'""'""■«»«'Uem  of  this  great  swry, 

BETTY  ZANe"'  ""^^ ""'"-"»  "^i^^  "^  "  ""*  "'""' 

THE  LONE  STAR  RA/-,G  :r 

T^Jbo^rSlV"^  In?Sm'?S',h1f'»,?".fJ,te"».'«Tn  »"  ■>«•>>»  alon^  th, 
prisoner,  and  in  atlempliis  lo  resul-  h^J  hri!,  i*""  ""'■  •■=  '""''>  •  y"unir  S"l  held 
^p.ors  and  henceforth^is  'Z^doi\ti^'^^Si"^S  Sh'"  T  T™>h  of  hi? 
THE  BORDER  LErWDNT  men.onthe  other  byomlaw,. 

gnP^^^^^^^E^?Ss/SaRi,';^r.^d'?nin'^h;  ^-.™  "■"''"« 

When  loan,  dismnsed  as  an  ontlj ,.,.,  observes  lim   in  Ih.  ,h^         , '"o*"'  ro.nance- 

THE   LAST  OF  THFj^k  eTTsCOUTS ^:=^S=^^ 

enfaeed  ,„  _,he  m,»t  d.,„'„roS,  ^Si,.  2^""  "' "  .t.l"'' ?' 


_  ""  ■•  ."^'J  ■'■icicsiinff  account  of  tiie  ti 


lACK 

LONDON'S 

NOVELS 

Mn  bf  ba4  atanni  boi      m  nrid.     Art  (or  Imnt «  Dndw's  IbL 

■■^  ;  ii 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN.    lUustrated  by  H.  T.  Duac. 

This  remarkable  book  is  a  record  of  the  author's  own  araasing 
experiences.     This  big,   brawny  world  rover,    who  has   been   ac- 

guainted  with  alcohol  trom  boyhood,  comes  out  boldly  against  John 
arleycorn.  It  is  a  string  of  exciting  adventures,  yet  it  forcefully 
conveys  an  unforgetable  idea  and  makes  a  typical  Jack  Loiuion  boolc 
,  TOE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON.    Frontispiece  by  George  Harper. 

The  story  opens  in  the  city  slums  where  Billy  Roberts,  teamster 
and  ex-prize  fighter,  and  Saxon  llrown,  laundry  worker,  meet  and 
love  and  marry-.  They  tramp  from  one  end  of  Calii  irnia  to  the 
other,  and  in  the  Valley  of  the  Moon  find  the  farm  paradise  that  is 
to  be  their  salvation. 
BURNING  DA\XIGHT.    Four  iUustrations. 

The  story  ot  an  .adventurer  who  went  to  Alaska,  and  laid  the 
foundations  of  his  fortune  before  tlic  goldhuntersarnved.  Bringing 
his  fortunes  to  the  States  he  is  cheated  out  of  tt  by  a  crowd  of  money 
kings,  and  recovers  it  only  at  the  muxzle  of  h's  gun.  He  then  starts 
out  as  a  merciless  exploiter  on  his  own  account.  Finally  he  takes  to 
drinking  and  becdmos  a  picture  of  degeneration.  About  tins  tune 
he  falls  in  love  with  his  stenographer  and  wins  her  heart  but  not 
her  hand  and  then— but  read  tlie  story! 
A  SON  OF  THE  SL^.  Illustrated  by  A.  0.  Fischer  and  C.W.  Ashleji 

David  Grief  was  once  a  licrht-haired,  blue-eyed  youth  who  came 
from  England  to  the  Sotith  Seas  in  seaich  (if  adviniuve.  Tanned 
like  a  native  and  as  lithe  as  a  tiger,  he  became  a  real  son  of  the  sun. 
The  life  appealed  to  him  and  he  remained  and  became  very  wealthy, 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD.  Illustrations  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin  and 
Charles  Livingston  Bull.    Decorations  by  Charles  E.  Hooper. 

A  book  of  dog  adventures  as    exciting  as  anv  man's  exploits 
could  be.    Here  is  excitement  to  stir  the  blood  and  here  is  pictur- 
esque color  to  transport  the  reader  to  primitive  scenes. 
THE  SEA  WOLF.    Illustrated  by  W.  J.  Aylward. 

Told  by  a  man  whom  Fate  suddenly  swings  from  his  fastidious 
life  into  the  power  of  the  brutal  captain  of  a  sealing  schooner.  A 
novel  of  adventure  ^^iInlled  by  a  beautiful  love  episode  that  every 
reader  will  hail  with  deliglit. 

WHITE  FANG.    Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

"White  Fang**  is  \iiTt  dog,  part  wolf  and  all  br"t:e,  living  in  the 
frozen  nnrth  ;  he  gradually  comes  under  tlie  spell  of  mans  com- 
panidnship,  and  surrenders  all  at  the  last  in  a  fight  with  a  bull  dog. 
Thereafter  he  is  man's  loving  h?ave. 


Grosset   &    DuNLAP,  Publishers,    New    York. 


